


Prison Bitch

by gallavichfanfic



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aryan Brotherhood, Beating, Black Eye, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Blue Balls, Blue Eyes, Bombing, Coercion, Consensual Non-Consent, Corporal Punishment, Dominance, Dry Humping, Emergency Medical Technicians, False Identity, Fight Sex, Fingerfucking, First Time Bottoming, Fist Fights, Frottage, Gang Violence, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Green Eyes, Interrogation, Long-Term Relationship(s), Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Mental Health Issues, Mexican Cartel, Mild S&M, Military Backstory, Minor Character Death, Mutual Masturbation, Near Death Experiences, News Media, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Original Character(s), Paddling, Physical Abuse, Physical Disability, Physical Therapy, Post-Canon, Post-Endgame, Power Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Prison, Prison Sex, Prostate Massage, Reunions, Riding, Rimming, Rough Sex, Russian Mafia, Secret Identity, Security Clearance, Self-Defense, Self-Lubrication, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Roleplay, Shameless Season 9, Sharing a Bed, Shooting Guns, Shower Sex, Sibling Love, Spanking, Star-crossed, Surgery, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Top Ian Gallagher, Top Mickey Milkovich, Torture, Voyeurism, Whipping, Witness Protection, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2019-08-08 18:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 71
Words: 161,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16434188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallavichfanfic/pseuds/gallavichfanfic
Summary: Mickey and Ian are reunited in prison. Will their relationship be rekindled? Can it survive prison and all that Mickey's prior dealings may bring? Can love really conquer all?





	1. Reunion Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> NEWS!!
> 
> I would like to thank ElleGum (a.k.a. liza1510) for her tremendous dedication and hard work in completing the translation of South of the Border to Russian!. She has plans to translate my other works as well! Kudos to you!
> 
> Link to Russian site: 
> 
> https://ficbook.net/readfic/6798289

Ian caressed Mickey’s cheek softly as he pressed his nose against the heavenly-scented neck that he had longed to nuzzle for the better part of two years. He knew he must be dreaming, but he couldn’t bear the thought of waking up, not without making the most of the situation. All too often, he had awakened too soon, sporting a painful woody and a feeling of utter emptiness and heartache. 

He grinded himself slowly against Mickey’s unrelentingly stiff cock. The feeling was familiar, yet more intense, more intoxicating, just MORE---more than mere words could ever come close to expressing. “Mickey...” he gasped with half a voice, his accompanying moans becoming all but completely silenced by the soft, irresistibly inviting flesh that he now took hungrily into his hot, greedy mouth. Goosebumps rose on Mickey’s tender neck as Ian continued to suck and gnaw at it ravenously, Mickey’s solid, beefy chest heaving as the heat between their bodies crescendoed, both all at once becoming acutely aware of their precarious position, given their unfortunate surroundings. 

“Knock it off, ya fuckin’ faggots! No one wantsa see that shit! I’ll give ya somethin’ to moan about!” a mountainous, shifty-eyed C.O. hollered menacingly, after banging his baton rudely against the cell door. Ian sat up abruptly, startled, slamming his head off the bunk above them---hard. Now he knew he wasn’t dreaming. 

“Fuck off!” Mickey muttered under his breath, reaching for Ian’s head with an irritated sigh. “It bleedin’?” he asked, a note of genuine concern evident in his otherwise gruff voice. Ian shrugged his shoulders as Mickey pulled him back on top of him, cradling his head in his hands as it rested on his prominent pecs. 

How long Mickey had waited for this day! Wished for it! Dreamt of it! Manifested it in his mind, even during the bleakest of times. Finally, Ian was in his arms again, where he belonged. There was nothing in the world Mickey wouldn’t have given---have sacrificed---for even just a single moment of this. 

He couldn’t help but wonder, however, what Ian’s initial thoughts were, upon his arrival to their cell. If the sexy smirk on Ian’s face just prior to his literally jumping Mickey’s bones was any indication, Mickey felt he could safely assume that Ian was glad to see him. But his thoughts now turned to worry over whether Ian still loved him, or whether he would just be his prison bitch, a convenient piece of ass, until he could get out and resume his ‘real’ life. 

“It’s more than that,” Mickey told himself. It just had to be. He had literally risked his life for this opportunity, and he wanted so much more than a good fuck, though he knew damn well Ian could deliver on that in spades. He had to find a way to be sure, without jeopardizing what he knew he already had. “Be cool,” was fast becoming his mantra. He couldn’t afford to lay all his cards on the table just yet. “Let him come at you,” his calculating mind spoke to his weak, vulnerable heart, somehow miraculously convincing it of the need for emotional restraint. 

Mickey was distracted from his thoughts by the sensation of Ian’s body trembling against his own. “...’s alright,” he whispered softly into the crown of Ian’s coal-black locks, just before puckering his puffy, pink lips to press a light kiss into them. He instinctively wrapped his strong, calming arms around Ian’s still shaking, obviously terrified form, reminding himself, once again, “Be cool,” and biting back the words he was dying to share. 

Instead, he went with, “Don’t worry. I got your back. It’s all good,” in a reassuring tone. “Got friends inside here. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen,” he added comfortingly. Ian breathed a deliberate sigh of relief, hoping the gesture would achieve the desired effect. He reluctantly relaxed his body onto Mickey’s, collapsing fully into him, allowing himself to take solace in Mickey’s confident strength. 

“Thank Shim for this beautiful soul,” Ian thought to himself guiltily, having come to the realization that he had foolishly allowed the love of his life to drive away, across the border into Mexico, into a dangerous life of uncertainty and crime without him, the likelihood of them ever seeing one another again quite slim. And yet, somehow he had the great fortune to get a second chance!

Now that Shim had bestowed this most glorious gift upon him, an action Ian was certain was a reward for his work in defending the rights of homosexuals to live free of discrimination and abuse, he made a silent promise never to make such a potentially catastrophic error in judgment again, to keep Mickey close to him, to love him the way he deserved to be loved. He clung to Mickey like a frightened child as he relived their tearful farewell at the border in his tortured mind, the fear of being involuntarily separated from him in prison washing over him like a tidal wave. 

Ian let himself go completely, finally abandoning the hard-nosed front he’d put up throughout the duration of his court appearance and subsequent preparation for his incarceration, sobbing quietly into Mickey’s chest, hoping not to be overheard by anyone who might wish either of them harm. He could be himself around Mickey. No need to put on a facade. Mickey knew the real Ian anyway. Somehow, this knowledge, coupled with Mickey’s secure embrace, managed to lull Ian to sleep, Mickey’s now tear-and blood-soaked chest serving as his pillow.

“Ian! Ian! Wake up!” Mickey called out nervously, having awakened suddenly to the feeling of wet warmth spreading over him. Once he had adjusted Ian’s head, in an attempt to find the source, he realized Ian was bleeding pretty significantly, and began to panic. Ian’s eyes blinked open slowly, a blank expression on his pale, angelic face. “Ian! You okay?!” Mickey continued, a bit more softly than before, so as not to spook Ian. 

“Yeah, Mick. Why?” Ian asked sleepily, struggling to keep his eyes open and focused on Mickey’s frightened face. “Think ya need some stitches, man,” Mickey answered, attempting to sound as matter-of-fact as possible, despite the growing pool of blood that now soaked the front of his jumpsuit. 

Ian sat up slowly, a dizzy spell quickly sending his head down onto the now unoccupied pillow. Mickey had swung himself around to the outside of the thin cot, anticipating Ian’s need for medical attention. “Hold on, Ian. Gonna get ya some help,” Mickey breathed begrudgingly. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to ask any employee of the prison for help. Unfortunately, with Ian bleeding the way he was, Mickey had no other choice. 

“Hey! Can we get some fuckin’ help in here?!” he yelled impatiently, while applying pressure to Ian’s head wound, following the instructions Ian had just given him. Within seconds, the same asshole who had caused the accident in the first place reappeared, a creepy smile spreading across his lips as he took in the sight of Ian and his injury. “C’mon,” he snarled as he unlocked the cell door, his grin never waning as he spoke, “Let’s get your pretty little ass to the infirmary.” 

Mickey rose to his feet, helping Ian up and heading for the open door. “You sit your ass down!” the C.O. commanded, shaking his baton in Mickey’s direction. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Mickey glared at him as he pulled Ian roughly by the arm, leaving his wound open and once again bleeding profusely. 

“Ian, you’re gonna be fine,” Mickey said with as much sincerity as he could muster, though he wasn’t convinced himself. He watched as the callous guard yanked Ian down the narrow hallway, Ian’s listless frame bouncing haphazardly against the walls. 

“FUCK!!!” Mickey screamed, after the two rounded the bend toward the elevator, throwing himself, face-down, onto the cot to hide his leaking eyes for what amounted to less than a minute, before he heard a baton tapping obnoxiously at the cell door. “Milkovich! Put this on!” a voice yelled with put-on authority. Mickey turned to look just in time to see another C.O. opening his cell door and tossing a clean jumpsuit onto the floor of his cell. “Warden wants ta see ya.”


	2. Dirty Little Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello wonderful readers,
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'm so honored to have your readership once again. I have to warn you, however, that this next chapter is not for the faint of heart. As I have indicated in my tags, this story will end well, but not without significant real-life prison experiences that might upset many of you. Hell, they upset me, too, but I need to be true to the story, so if you're in it for the story AND its happy ending, then read on. 
> 
> Thanks again for giving my work your time.
> 
> Gallavich Forever!

Teresa, the nurse on duty in the infirmary, had done a pretty good job of closing Ian’s head wound, and, through their conversation as she was doing it, ended up promising him that she would ask about him working in the infirmary, given his background and experience. She seemed kind and sincere, the type of person he could trust. He, nonetheless, resisted the urge to spill his whole Gay Jesus history, opting to hold his cards close, and not to reveal the true reason behind his interest in working there.

Ian had been sickened by the gruesome sights in the infirmary, so many prisoners so obviously victims of abuse, sexual and otherwise. He had vowed, after all the trouble it had caused him, to tone down his involvement in activism, but upon seeing all of these battered and broken young men, the fire inside him had been stoked. He needed time though, to get an understanding of the way this place worked, to get his bearings, to ensure that he and Mickey were safe first. 

As Ian sat, deep in thought, his eyes darting from one pitiful patient to the next, awaiting his escort back to his cell, Teresa made her way back toward him, approaching to whisper perceptively, “I know. I hate it, too, but there ain’t shit anyone can do. Trust me on this, Ian. You get mixed up on the wrong side of all this, and I’ll be seeing a lot more of you---and I don’t mean on work detail.” 

Now Ian’s mind was racing. “All what?” Was this more than just a random collection of injured prisoners, their afflictions the result of unfortunate, but unrelated incidents involving other less humane inmates? He now began to suspect that these men’s injuries were somehow connected. Was there a systemic, institution-wide cycle of abuse? It certainly seemed likely, given the large number of patients and Teresa’s fearful warning. 

Ian nodded slowly in acknowledgement of Teresa’s words, though the expression on his face told her, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he did not intend to let this go. She turned and walked away slowly, her head down, her posture, defeated.

___________________________

“Mickey, have a seat!” the warden bellowed from across the room. The tall, lanky C.O., who had ushered him in, now all but pushed him into a hard, wooden chair in front of the warden’s desk, remaining within inches of Mickey, as he stood, awaiting further instructions. “This clown gotta be this close?” Mickey questioned the warden skeptically, shooting daggers at the C.O., who continued to invade his personal space, as the warden approached the large, plush leather chair behind his desk. 

“You can go, Beau,” the warden barked, the attentive C.O. immediately doing an about-face and exiting the office. The warden plopped down into his oversized chair, addressing Mickey for the second time. “Mickey, I have some news,” he began. Mickey raised his eyebrows quizzically in anticipation of the story that was to follow. “Another cartel member, Chico Sanchez, was picked up in connection with the activities you were recently deposed about,” the warden continued, pausing to drink from his gigantic urn of coffee. “And?!” Mickey questioned impatiently. “And his case will likely go to trial, which means you will be needed to testify,” the warden explained. “What?!” Mickey responded angrily. “The D.A. said I was done with this shit! Just had ta serve my time!” “Mickey, sometimes things don’t turn out like we think they will. You know that,” the warden fired back.

“So...so now I gotta wait ‘round here, a sittin’ fuckin’ duck, just waitin’ for someone from the cartal ta OFF my ass, before I can testify?! That’s fucked up!” Mickey growled. “Well, ya gotta do it. I’ll keep ya in protective custody until after the trial,” the warden offered. “And where’s that?” Mickey inquired anxiously. “Down in the hole...you know, Solitary,” he answered with a slight smirk. 

“Naw, Warden! I was promised a spot with my cellie, Gallagher, and that’s where I plan to stay. “Suit yourself,” he replied, “I can give you round the clock guards, but if ya stay upstairs, ya still gotta eat in the chow hall, and ya have to do a work detail.” 

“Yeah, I get it. It’s cool. I’d rather take my chances upstairs and bunk with my cellie, if ya know what I mean,” Mickey smiled, a full-on blush overtaking his face. “Alright, but it’s probably gonna be a few weeks ‘til this thing goes to trial. A lot can happen in a few weeks, if ya know what I’m tryin a say,” the warden warned, before buzzing for Beau to return so he could escort Mickey back to his cell.  
______________ 

After what seemed like an eternity, Burman, the gigantic C.O. who had dragged Ian’s bloody ass up to the infirmary, arrived to get him safely back to his cell, or so he said. Ian went compliantly, almost happy to be getting out of eye and earshot of the horrendously beaten and mangled prisoners being held there. 

“Seems like I took pretty good care of ya, gettin’ up to the infirmary so quick and all,” Burman reasoned, rumpling Ian’s hair with his free hand. Ian shifted his weight uncomfortably in a lame effort to put himself outside this huge man’s reach. “You best not be tryna get away from me...’cause you and me’s got a business relationship from now on. Yeah, since I got ya all fixed up, I figure ya owe me. Yeah, and I wanna collect,” he smiled slowly, the same creepy look in his eye as when he had come to retrieve him from his cell. 

“Collect what? What could I possibly owe you for doing your job?” Ian asked incredulously, adding, “Hell, I don’t even have any money. My bitch of a sister never even showed up to give me a ride here.” 

“I don’t want your fuckin’ money, but you are gonna need my protection, or should I say, your cellie is. I know all about what he did, and about who’s here to make sure he don’t make it to testify,” he spelled out, licking his lips after every third word. “And guess what?” he whispered into Ian’s ear, the stench of his putrid breath making its way over to Ian’s nose, after which Ian stifled a gag as he fought to listen over the clanking of the keys to the cell and the creaking sound as the cell door opened. “Me and my satisfied cock are the only things standin’ between your sawed-off, cock-suckin’, cartel-snitchin’ bitch and his violent, untimely death.” Burman was breathing hard with excitement as he continued, “So I’d get the fuck down on my goddam, fine-ass knees and git ‘er done right, if I was you.”

“What? You don’t…” Ian began, Burman stopping him mid-sentence as they continued down the corridor toward his cell. “Oh...so you don’t care what happens to him? I thought you two were close,” Burman croaked, under his breath. “We are, but...I mean…” Ian stammered. 

“Look, it’s pretty simple. Either I get the best blow jobs you can deliver, on a regular basis, or your bitch of a boyfriend takes my baton up his ass! Then, when he’s ready, I let Chico take care of him---for good. Your choice.” Burman stood near the sink, pointing down at the floor below. He let out a gleeful chuckle as Ian lowered himself to the floor, supporting his body weight on his knees as he proceeded to unbuckle and unfasten Burman’s pants. 

Ian closed his eyes and thought of Mickey, tears streaming down his face as he did his best to rustle up the nerve to do such a horrific deed. “Let’s get this show on the road,” Burman growled, quickly losing patience. “Need help?” he quipped, grabbing Ian by the ears and cramming his long, thick, veiny cock down his throat until he gagged. “C’mon, you can do better than that. At least I hope so...for your bitch’s sake. I’m gonna fuck that sweet little mouth...and you’re gonna like it!” he taunted. Ian hastened his pace, putting on his “A-Game”, in an attempt to get it over with quickly. 

With Ian’s level of expertise, the sorry excuse for a man was finished in less than a minute, just in time for Mickey’s return to the cell. “Hey, Burman,” Beau began, “You got daylight guard duty for these two. Warden says to keep them safe,” he finished. “Will do!” Burman smirked with a song in his voice, “We’re gonna have a good time, right, Gallagher?” Ian remained silent, swallowing repeatedly in a futile attempt to clear the thick mix of bile and cum from his throat. Burman jabbed him in the gut with his baton. "Didn't hear ya answer!" he shouted. “Yes, sir,” Ian mumbled, his stomach churning as he stared down at the floor, choking on his own vomit, unable to bring himself to make eye contact with Mickey. 

“Well, I’ll leave you two to your last day off. Tomorrow you both start work detail, although Gallagher’s already workin’ real hard for me, ain’t ya?” he chortled as he walked out of the cell, nonchalantly buckling his pants, then locking the door behind him. “See ya soon, Gallagher!” he said with a condescending wink.


	3. Work Detail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all of you for your comments and kudos! Keep them coming! And special thanks for tys.fan’s tireless dedication to pre-reading my chapters, prior to publication. Quality control at its best! TYSVM!!
> 
> P.S. Planning to publish another chapter later today!

Once Ian had finished dry-heaving for the night, Mickey ceded the lower bunk to him, tucking both of their blankets around him, then climbing up onto the top bunk, where he lay completely still, in order not to disturb Ian, unable to shake the gnawing feeling that something, other than shitty prison food, was causing Ian’s illness. 

Ian managed somehow to survive the night without sharing the horrors of his unsavory activities just prior to Mickey’s return to their cell. He had lunged toward the toilet the moment the two guards were out of earshot, expelling his foul stomach and throat contents, then feigning a foodborne illness. It certainly wasn’t difficult for Ian to get Mickey to at least entertain the possibility of his claim, given the fact that the entire experience had sickened him to the point of requiring multiple trips to their stainless-steel bowl. 

Ian had managed to sleep in bits and snatches, awakening often from nightmares of Burman standing at their cell door, demanding his services. Meanwhile, Mickey lay motionless in the top bunk, so as not to disturb Ian’s fleeting moments of sleep, amid a night of restless tossing and turning. 

By morning, Mickey hadn’t slept a wink, the odd conglomeration of events he had witnessed upon his return to the cell and his recent conversation with the warden replaying on an endless loop in his head. He finally resigned himself to getting up, dressing and hoping for the best. He still hadn’t heard where either of them would be working, and he was beyond anxious about talking with Ian, now that his stomach seemed finally to have settled. 

And so he stood beside the bunks, watching Ian sleep, completely mesmerized by his beauty, drinking in his very presence, hoping against all hope that he would wake up feeling well and ready to talk. Mickey stared intently as Ian’s eyes slowly blinked open, only to fly shut abruptly, causing Mickey to wonder if he’d really seen them open at all. He knew he had. Ian’s breathing had quickened, as Mickey observed by the rise and fall of the blankets that surrounded him. Ian was awake, but pretending to be asleep. 

This silent stalemate continued for some time until Mickey finally spoke, “Look, Ian, if ya want me ta leave ya alone, just say so!” he blurted out in frustration. Ian rolled over to face the wall, his eyes brimming over with tears that he couldn’t bear to let Mickey see. 

“Count!” a deep voice boomed over the loud speaker, followed by a buzzing sound that unlocked all of the cell doors. Ian sprung into action reflexively, practically leaping to his feet and reaching for his jumpsuit, which lay in a heap beside him. Mickey exited their cell, Ian following closely behind for morning count. The two stood silently, side by side, as they awaited their turn to recite their numbers. Once they had, they were approached by Burman, who had come to inform them of their work details. 

Ian could feel his stomach knotting up the moment he caught sight of Burman, his body stiffening instinctively. He averted his eyes just before Burman spat his name, “Gallagher!” Ian’s eyes remained downcast until Mickey jabbed him in the side, as if to remind him that he best give the man his attention before things got ugly. Ian shifted his gaze upward as Burman continued, “Infirmary, 7 to 3.” Ian nodded and Mickey breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Burman smirked, then licked his lips before adding, “Milkovich, Kitchen, 11 to 7,” never letting his eyes stray from Ian’s. 

Ian barely noticed as a second guard stopped by with the chow schedule. His head was spinning. He was going to work in the infirmary, which was good, but he would be coming back to an empty cell, since Mickey would be working until seven, which was definitely not good. He could see that Burman had plans for him, and he knew he couldn’t afford to skirt the issue or to let Mickey in on what was happening. Mickey’s life was at stake. 

Just hearing Burman’s voice and seeing the fucked-up smirk on his face made Mickey’s skin crawl. He fought away the urge to take a swing at him, knowing full well what such an action would bring. Mickey knew, in his heart of hearts, what had to be going down, or at least was about to go down, but he hadn’t yet let his mind go there. His very sanity depended on that, and he, on some level, understood as much. 

“C’mon, let’s get some chow. Ya got work soon, and ya gotta eat somethin’ after all that pukin’,” Mickey urged, nudging Ian into a hesitant forward motion. Once they arrived at the chow hall, Mickey remained behind Ian in the line, literally watching his back. Mickey made a quick scan of the back of the house, taking notice of the other prisoners who were working behind the line. He could see and hear that they were mostly of Eastern European descent. The Russians had definitely put in a word on his behalf. At least his fucked up family was good for something. Now he knew he would be in good company on work detail, which meant less looking over his shoulder, for now at least. 

Once they had their trays, Mickey took the reigns, pushing Ian toward a table of older white guys, most of whom were covered in Russian tattoos. Ian sat down cautiously, eyeing up the table to their right, inhabited by a sea of Hispanic prisoners, some of whom he recognized as having Mexican gang tattoos. He wondered how many of them had affiliations with the cartel, and whether any of them had orders to take care of Mickey. He knew that what Mickey had done was extremely dangerous. In fact, he seriously wondered whether he would have done it for Mickey, had the situation been reversed. 

He stole a glance at Mickey, who was sitting less than a foot away from him at the table, and all at once, he had his answer. Their eyes met, and although it only lasted a split-second, the magnetic pull was undeniable. There was no doubt in Ian’s mind that Mickey had given up his safety, and all too likely his longevity for THIS---what they had between them---something that was beyond words and could scarcely be fully expressed, even through the most physically fulfilling interactions. 

And Ian now knew that he, too, would risk everything---drive across the border, work for the cartel---whatever it would take to be with Mickey, if only he had it to do over again. His lustful desire for Mickey was so strong and felt so right, in that moment, that Ian was hard-pressed not to act on it, prison, C.O.s and prisoners be damned. His eyes betrayed him a second time, darting furtively over at Mickey, who caught him and responded with a soft, sexy smile that he dared to let cross his face fleetingly, before reassuming his trademark Milkovich scowl, effectively keeping at bay anyone who was looking for a bitch or for a sign of weakness.

Fuck! Ian wanted him, right then and there! He told himself he would just forget the incident with Burman and move on. But the logical part of his brain refused to be lulled into this nonsensical shit, knowing full well that Burman was nowhere near done with him. Ian huffed out a deep breath of despair and begrudgingly spooned some luke warm oatmeal into his mouth. 

The two finished their meal in silence, both noticing a large number of Mexican eyes on them. “Gotta go,” Ian finally breathed, lifting his tray and heading for the scullery to return it. “Later,” Mickey replied, taking one last sip of coffee before rising to dump his tray. 

Ian hastened his pace as he approached the C.O-supervised elevator, catching it just before the doors closed. As he exited the elevator, headed for the infirmary, he caught sight of Teresa, who was also just arriving. “Morning!” she said with a bright smile. “Mornin’,” Ian mumbled, staring down at his feet. Ian’s misery was written all over him. “Oh shit!” Teresa responded, “Already?”

Ian’s heart began beating as if it were going to come through his chest. “She knows,” he thought, much to his horror. His face blushed bright red as he scanned the area for somewhere to hide, without success. “Come with me,” she spoke softly, leading him into an office behind the nurse’s station. Once they were inside, she closed the door. “Sit,” she urged him, tapping her hand on a cushioned chair. Ian complied, still avoiding eye contact. 

“Listen,” she began, “You don’t have to tell me a thing, if you don’t want to. I can probably guess most of it anyway.” Teresa paused, sitting down on a chair next to him, giving him a minute to speak, in case he wanted to, then continuing, “Like I said yesterday, this shit happens. But life goes on,” she tried to explain, Ian finally looking up, puzzled. What the fuck did she mean, “Life goes on”?

“Ian, I know your cellmate is more than just a cellmate. I also know the trouble he’s in,” she revealed. Ian’s jaw dropped. How the fuck could she know these things? Before he could ask, she volunteered, “Mickey is on a ‘watch list’. This means, as I’m sure you are aware, that his life is in danger, and, unlike the case with the majority of prisoners, the warden wants to keep this from happening, since the State needs Mickey to testify,” she finished with a half-frown.

“So you’re saying I just do whatever is asked of me?” Ian asked incredulously. “I can’t even look at Mickey now!” he lamented, holding his head in his hands. “Ian, you didn’t do anything wrong! None of this is your fault!” Teresa responded as she approached Ian and pulled him in for a warm hug. Ian, much to his own surprise, broke down, haltingly sharing the details of his history with Mickey, his stint as Gay Jesus, and all of the guilt he had swallowed in the nearly two years he and Mickey had been apart.

The two bonded as if they had known one another for years, Teresa telling Ian of her frustration with her job, and all the pain and abuse she could treat only superficially, sending victims back out to be beaten and violated again, perpetuating a cycle of violence and misery. She hinted at extensive C.O. involvement, but refrained from providing too many details, so as not to scare Ian any more than he already was. Ian vowed to help her break the cycle, just as soon as he knew Mickey was safe, though Teresa refused to allow him to endanger himself any further under any circumstances.

Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of a young Mexican gang member, who had been stabbed in the chow line. He was bleeding pretty severely from the abdomen. The story, as told by the C.O. that delivered the guy, was that he may have been involved in an attempted hit, and that the retaliating perpetrator of the stabbing was a kitchen employee. 

Ian could hear and feel his own blood rushing in his ears, his face flushing hot as he instinctively began rendering emergency care to the man in front of him. “Did this fucking goon just try to off Mickey?” he couldn’t help but wonder. Still, he proceeded to preserve the life that was currently in his capable hands, the rest of the infirmary staff looking on admiringly. Ian had mad skills and everyone could see it, including Teresa, who couldn’t help but smile as she watched him. 

Once the new arrival was stable and resting comfortably, Ian began thinking of ways to broach the subject with him as to what happened. Once he had finished changing wound dressings on some other patients, he approached the new patient’s bed, searching the room with his eyes quickly to see if anyone was watching him. That was when he saw Teresa looking over at him disapprovingly. She shook her head from side to side as he made eye contact. 

He quickly averted his gaze, heading for the supply closet to restock the dressing cart. Once he finished, Teresa was quick to grab him for chart training, after which he spent the remainder of his shift entering information into the computer. He scratched the number of the most recent admission onto a scrap of paper, then stuffed it into his sock, just before his shift ended. 

Once three o’clock hit, he rose from his seat, preparing to leave and praying that someone other than Burman would be his escort. “Here! Catch!” Teresa hollered from across the nurse’s station, tossing a small box at Ian. Ian nonchalantly tucked it into his pocket, then requested permission to use the facilities. 

Upon entering, he locked himself in the stall and pulled the box from his pocket. Surgilube. Ian didn’t know what to think. Was Teresa trying to prepare him for his next session with Burman? He took a deep breath, his fingers fumbling to open the tiny box, then snickered to himself as he read the enclosed note. “Feed your soul. Love your man. Nothing else matters,” after which there was a hand-drawn smiley face. 

Ian discarded the box, then wrapped the note around the tube of lube and stuffed it into his sock. He stared at himself in the mirror, doing his best to stave off the image of Burman’s nasty cock crammed down his throat. “Mickey doesn’t know,” he told himself, “And he never will.” 

He closed his eyes and imagined Mickey under him, so beautifully vulnerable, so sexy, his crystal blue eyes filled with nothing but love and longing. He would do anything for that man---his man! He knew it, sure as he was standing there. 

“Yes, I will,” Ian whispered to himself as he pushed the restroom door open, readying himself for whatever he might have to endure for his love. “Yes, I will,” he repeated to himself as he approached the elevator. Just then, the doors opened, Burman standing inside, grinning ear to ear.  
__________________

Mickey and the rest of the kitchen crew had finally gotten things cleaned up, after the mayhem that had ensued during lunch. There was food, blood and piss everywhere, along with trays and silverware strewn about the floor. Mickey had done an admirable job cleaning, and had also remained remarkably cool, considering the circumstances. 

“Hey Mick!” the kitchen manager called over to him, “Why don’t ya go get a shower and relax for an hour? We got ya covered.” “You sure?” Mickey responded, shocked at the offer. “Yeah, man. Go!” Mickey smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow before replying, “Thanks, man,” then approaching the C.O. that now stood waiting to escort him back to his cell. He was to be escorted everywhere now, and there was more talk of him being moved into protective custody. 

Mickey told himself he wouldn’t let that happen. He needed to stay in the cell with Ian, like he was promised, to find out what was in his head. “What time is it?” he asked his escort. “3:15,” he read from his cell phone. Mickey grinned at the realization that Ian would likely be finished at the infirmary for the day. He hoped he was feeling better and that they would finally have some time to talk, among other things. He yearned to express his love fully, to give himself entirely to Ian. He really needed to feel Ian inside him, the way he’d been craving for what seemed like a lifetime. He adjusted his stiffening cock as he neared the door to their cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all of you for your comments and kudos! Keep them coming! And special thanks to tys.fan's tireless dedication to pre-reading my chapters, prior to publication. Quality control at its best! TYSVM!!
> 
> P.S. Planning to publish another chapter later today!


	4. A Slippery Slope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing this journey with Mickey and Ian! Comments are encouraged and appreciated!

Ironically enough, it was Mickey who arrived to an empty cell. “Must’ve gone for a shower,” Mickey surmised as he gathered his toiletries and a change of clothes for his own shower, noticing that Ian’s were gone. “Let’s go,” his escort barked, hustling Mickey along. The C.O. walked briskly, speaking to Mickey under his breath, “Warden says you gotta shower privately since that shit went down today. Gonna move ya downstairs after that. Gotta keep ya safe so ya can sing for ‘em. Then you’ll be back up here…” he trailed off, registering an odd look on his face that Mickey couldn’t read. 

Mickey’s escort led him through the catacombs of the unit, finally stopping in front of a locked door, marked “Private”. As he reached for the door with his keys to unlock it, he froze, having heard voices and running water. “Gonna hafta wait. Someone’s in there,” the guard mumbled, stating the obvious. 

“Let me get a good look at ya,” a familiar voice came through the door. “Hmmm...might have to reconsider your role...eventually,” the voice scoffed. At this point, Mickey’s escort took a step back, swallowing hard. “Socks, too,” were the next words they heard, followed by, “Oh! For me? Well now, this calls for a little change in plans. Wash up! Quick like!” The voice now filled with giddy excitement.

There was a brief lull, presumably while the receiver of these commands showered, then, “Get on your knees and suck it! And I want you hard while ya do it! And when I’m ready, gonna fuck the shit outta that tight little ass of yours! Might even go easy on ya and use some a this jelly ya so kindly brought for me,” the voice snickered. 

“That’s not for you!” another voice protested emotionally. “Shut the fuck up! And suck my cock!” the first voice yelled. It was at that moment that Mickey recognized Ian’s voice and realized the other voice belonged to that vile piece of shit, Burman. 

“Listen, you’re either gonna open that door right the fuck now and get that animal the fuck off my dude, or I’m gonna be your worst fuckin’ nightmare!” Mickey threatened sternly, adding, “You don’t wanna be the one ta blame for me gettin’ my ass killed, right?”

Mickey’s escort glared at him contemptuously, then knocked hesitantly on the door. “Fuck off!” Burman answered gruffly, figuring he was just another C.O. looking for some privacy. “Uh…” the other guard stammered, “Gotta...gotta get in there with a prisoner...Warden’s orders.” “Just a minute!” Burman hollered, obviously flustered, the sound of him hurriedly zipping and buckling his pants following immediately afterward. 

“Open the fuckin’ door! Now!” Mickey demanded. “And ya best lock us in after, so I can wash the fuckin’ filth offa him. Wouldn’t wanna tell the warden I ain’t gonna testify, all cuz a you!” he hissed angrily.

Just then, the door opened from the inside, Burman sidling out through it, looking down at both Mickey and his guard with disdain, his blatantly-aroused prick putting a serious stretch to the groin area of his uniform. “Oh...Okay…” the nervous C.O. stuttered. “I’m...I’m just gonna lock this, and...and...I’ll be back in a half hour?” he squeaked out with a question in his voice. Mickey nodded his head slowly as his eyes scoured Ian’s beautiful body for any signs of abuse and/or injury. 

Mickey closed the distance between himself and Ian as the door shut and locked behind him. He stripped his jumpsuit and boxers off in seconds flat, then jumped into the shower, throwing his arms around his glistening, water-soaked adonis and kissing him hard. Ian’s lips parted, Mickey’s tongue delving sensually into the mouth that he had claimed as his the moment they first kissed. Ian reciprocated, the passion of their kiss, along with both of their sex-starved cocks, growing by the second.

“Mickey,” Ian breathed into Mickey’s mouth as he turned him around, pressing his back against the shower wall, rubbing himself all over him, marking his territory in the most deliciously erotic way. He kissed, sucked and bit a trail down Mickey’s body, Mickey’s head rolling side to side against the wall in ecstasy as Ian lingered over his erect nipples, taking them, one at a time, between his teeth, nibbling at them teasingly. “Fuck!” Mickey whispered, as Ian took the tip of his rock-hard, lusciously thick cock into his hot mouth slowly, lovingly. He was determined to take his time, to give Mickey all of the pleasure he so richly deserved. 

Ian swiped his tongue over Mickey’s sensitive slit, then gradually enveloped his full length, softly caressing his balls as he did, until Mickey’s panting and moaning became so intense that Ian knew from experience that he was about to blow. It was music to Ian’s ears. He absolutely loved getting Mickey to this point. He slowed his efforts, reaching across the shower floor for the tiny lube tube, then slathering his long fingers with it. He slowly, painstakingly prepped his man, inserting one finger, then two, then three, all the while teasing his painfully swollen cock with his lips and tongue, offering just shy of the stimulation necessary to put Mickey over the edge.

Ian knew Mickey’s body, and he knew it well. He was an expert at tripping his trigger, and at not doing so, when the mood struck him. Finally, Mickey came across with something intelligible, amid all the gibberish that had been steadily escaping his full, pouty lips for the duration of this wickedly torturous blow job. “Jesus Christ, Ian,” he breathed, “Please fuck me! I fuckin’ need you!” 

Ian smiled around Mickey’s delicious cock, the taste of which, coupled with the pleading moans that were spewing from Mickey’s lips, having given him the mother of all hard-ons. “With pleasure,” he responded, after sliding his mouth off Mickey’s twitching, leaking tool. 

Ian lifted Mickey up off the floor, then spun 90 degrees. Mickey instinctively wrapped his legs around Ian’s waist, rubbing himself against Ian’s abs desperately, then stretching his legs and feet out to brace himself against the wall, while Ian angled himself, pressing gingerly up into Mickey’s adequately prepped, but still tight-as-fuck asshole. Ian eased himself further and further in with each stroke, nudging Mickey’s prostate as he did. It had been more than a while, and the last thing Ian wanted to do was to hurt Mickey. Mickey gritted his teeth, hissing between them as Ian finally bottomed out, the familiar fullness nonetheless overwhelming at first. “So fucking tight for me, Mickey,” Ian breathed into Mickey’s ear, as he licked and sucked fervently on his earlobe and tender neck, “So fucking perfect!” Ian could sense his impending explosion beginning to wash over him already, the feel of Mickey so insanely divine, so unbelievably fulfilling. He had forgotten just how incredible this felt. “Mickey,” he moaned each time he filled Mickey up.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Mickey squealed with pleasure as his body adjusted to Ian’s presence, his feet gripping the shower wall as he did his best to counter Ian’s thrusts, the intense tingle in his prostate magnifying with each stab, until he could take no more. “Fuck, Ian! Gonna cum!” Mickey all but screamed. That was it for Ian, too. He slammed into Mickey for a final time, squeezing the full, round buttocks that now clenched his cock between them as he shot his load deep inside him, Mickey climaxing with him, completely untouched, his sweet seed spurting over Ian’s abs, the warm shower water washing it down his slick, amazingly-toned body. 

“Fuck, I love you, Ian,” were the words that fought to free themselves from Mickey’s lips as he lowered his wobbly legs to stand again. “Nope!” Mickey chided himself for even considering it, still guarding against another heartbreak. “Damn, that was good, Gallagher!” he panted instead, still catching his breath after the tremendous, earth-shattering orgasm they’d just had together. Ian smiled, his eyes filling up with tears as he revisited the memory of his previous ordeal with Burman. He couldn’t keep this from Mickey any longer, not now that Mickey had heard what just happened. But he was afraid to say anything. He already felt the need to convince Mickey not to retaliate for what had almost gone down today. Yet he knew Mickey. He had to make Mickey understand that Burman wouldn’t hesitate to have him killed!

“Mickey, we need to…” Ian began, a knock at the door interrupting him. “Milkovich!” his escort called into the shower room, “Let’s go! Takin’ you to protective custody now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing this journey with Mickey and Ian! Comments are encouraged and appreciated!


	5. Messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm. Happy reading! More to come soon:)

“You ain’t gonna do fuck all!” Mickey howled back at the C.O., dressing quickly, then pulling Ian’s body into his own for a smoldering kiss that set Ian’s loins ablaze again in an instant. “Warden says ya gotta go. It’s...it’s for your own safety,” the uneasy C.O. responded, making a wary move to unlock the door, his free hand reaching into his belt.

“Gallagher’s comin’ with me then,” Mickey insisted, his eyes fixed intently on Ian’s. Ian couldn’t help but smile at Mickey’s ballsy attitude toward this man of authority, who was most certainly armed with a baton, at the very least.

The guard entered the shower room, his baton raised, his voice firm. “I’ll check into that for you, but ya gotta go with me for now,” he reasoned, Mickey tearing himself away from his lover and turning to face the C.O. “Are ya gonna knock me out with that? Cuz that’s the only way I’m goin’ anywhere without him,” Mickey growled, gesturing at Ian as he finished his sentence.

“Milkovich, I don’t wanna hurt ya, or anyone. That’s not my game. Just need to keep my job, so if ya don’t mind goin’ with me, I swear I’ll do what I can,” the guard said with a genuine kindness in his voice that made Ian nod his head at Mickey, mouthing the words, “Go. Please.” 

Mickey backpedaled and spun around, taking Ian by surprise and throwing his arms around him. Ian inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with Mickey’s heavenly scent, his eyes peering into Mickey’s soul with such intensity, it was as if they were speaking, yet no words were exchanged. Slowly, tenderly, Mickey kissed Ian as though he might never see him again, then bowed his head and went willingly with his escort. He knew Ian was right. His only shot at ever getting back to him for good was to be cooperative, at least for now. 

“Can I at least stop by the kitchen? Tell ‘em I won’t be comin’ back? Was s’posed ta be back to finish my shift,” Mickey explained to his chaperone as they left the shower room. “I’m not really sup…” Mickey cut him off, “C’mon, I’m goin’ with ya. Least I can do is let ‘em know.” The C.O. looked at his phone, then answered, “Real quick.” Mickey smiled briefly, then hastened his gait to keep pace with his escort, who was was tall, and taking long strides now in an effort to get Mickey to the kitchen and back quickly. 

Surprisingly, the C.O., who the guys behind the line identified simply as, “T”, hung back, giving Mickey the privacy to brief them on all that had transpired since he’d left to shower and relax. Ivan, whom Mickey had quickly come to know as the kitchen manager, shook his head, then began speaking to a few of the other prisoners who worked for him in what Mickey was pretty sure was Russian. T motioned for Mickey, indicating that his time was up, and Ivan acknowledged his departure non-verbally, as he continued his Russian conversation. 

“So, T,” Mickey began, once they were alone in the elevator, headed for protective custody, “you gotta get Ian down here.” “Can’t. Limited space and only one person to a cell,” T explained matter-of-factly. Mickey breathed through his nose harshly, then swallowed hard, doing his best to hold his emotions inside. “You know what that fuckhead, Burman’s gonna do if he stays up there?” Mickey asked, his eyes glassing up in spite of himself. “Ain’t a damn thing I can do about it!” T raised his voice in frustration. “Get his ass down here! I don’t care if he ain’t in the cell with me,” Mickey all but begged, trying, with every ounce of willpower he had, not to fall apart completely in front of this relative stranger. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not now...” T replied,as he unlocked the barred cell Mickey was going to inhabit until further notice, a genuine note of regret evident in his cadence. Mickey scanned his bleak surroundings, a dank and much more primitive hole in the wall than the cell he’d come from, its antiquated fixtures rusted, its metal cot covered with little more than an inch of heavily mildewed foam.

Mickey stood, staring out between the cold, thick, metal bars that imprisoned him, the cracked, water-stained cinder-block wall opposing his cell serving as a reminder of just exactly where he was, as well as the reality of his powerlessness to protect Ian from Burman and monsters like him. Once they started, Mickey couldn’t stop the deluge of tears that poured from his eyes. “Ian!” he sobbed in a hushed tone, “I fuckin’ love you!”  
_________________________

Fortunately for Ian, Burman’s shift was over by the time he returned to his cell. And since Mickey was no longer his cellmate and in need of protection, there was no guard there to replace him. 

Ian entered his cell, immediately reaching for the pillow on the top bunk and pulling it tightly to his face, allowing himself to breathe in Mickey’s comforting scent. He smiled faintly as it filled his sinuses, bringing him a fleeting moment of peace, his thoughts all too quickly turning to the issue of Mickey’s safety. 

Ian knew Burman would like nothing better than to take care of Mickey himself, but he also understood that his job depended on keeping Mickey alive. This had become quite evident during the earlier exchange between Mickey and both of the C.O.s. Ian took a small measure of comfort in the belief that none of the guards would intentionally kill Mickey. 

That wasn’t to say, however, that Burman would refrain from perpetrating unthinkably vile and inhumane acts of violence against Mickey. In fact, Ian knew from experience what a sadistic motherfucker he was. He’d already threatened to hurt Mickey, if Ian didn’t do exactly as he demanded. 

Ian hoped with everything he had that, if he continued to comply with Burman’s wishes, Mickey would be kept safe, that no one would harm him. He told himself this would be the case, and tried his best to convince himself it was true. It had to be. Ian couldn’t bear to think otherwise.  
___________________

Mickey had been drifting in and out of a restless sleep for what remained of the afternoon, the sleepless night he’d had while Ian was so ill having finally caught up with him. In the midst of one of his naps, the sound of squeaky wheels startled him awake. “Milkovich,” a voice boomed, causing Mickey to jump up from his cot in one fluid motion and stare, wide-eyed at his visitor. “Brought you some dinner,” a frail man, who didn’t match his voice at all, continued, Mickey picking out a slight Eastern European accent, much like the one his mother had had. He pushed a metal tray through Mickey’s meal slot with a grin, then winked at him, just before walking away, pushing a noisy cart filled with more trays of food. 

Mickey had to admit, the food looked good. Someone in the kitchen had obviously hooked him up. Unfortunately, he had no appetite, his stomach beginning to churn now that he was awake enough to remember where he was, where Ian was, and what he was sure would be happening to Ian, if it hadn’t already. 

Mickey picked at his dinner listlessly, forcing a few morsels past his lips in order to preserve his health and strength, both of which he knew he would need, in order to find his way back to Ian. It wasn’t until he unwrapped his plastic spork to try the jello that he noticed a note, scrawled in pen on his paper napkin. It read, simply, “Tomorrow’s chow.” Mickey was unsure as to the meaning behind this communication, but resolved to be extra observant of every aspect of the meals delivered to him the next day. 

Despite the reality of his and Ian’s situations and the ambiguity of the note he received, just knowing that someone had some type of plan enabled him to finally rest a bit better. He lay on his cot, closed his eyes, and remembered the glorious warmth generated by the sweet friction of Ian’s body rubbing against his own, his alluring scent, the tantalizing taste of his mouth, the electrical current that buzzed through them both when they fucked, the insatiable, white-hot fire the roared between them, its intensity ever-burgeoning. “I love you, Ian,” he murmured as he pleasured himself to a most exquisite recollection of their time together in the shower, then drifted off to sleep.  
__________________________

Ian’s eyes popped open. Had he really just heard it? Mickey’s voice? It was little more than a whisper, but he was certain it was real. “I love you, Ian.” Yes, he was sure he heard it. “I love you, too, Mick,” he answered out loud, peeking over the edge of the top bunk to see if Mickey was in the bottom one. But he wasn’t. The bed was empty, save for a blanket he had used the night before. He had decided to sleep in the top bunk because it still smelled like Mickey. He had climbed up into it, Mickey’s pillow in tow, resolving to spend the night wrapped in Mickey’s delicious scent, a decision that had provided him the comfort necessary to at least doze a bit---until he heard Mickey’s voice, that is. 

Now his body physically ached for Mickey, his soul craving his essence, and he wondered how he’d ever managed to survive the intervening years since their tearful farewell at the Mexican border. He reached into his boxers with his right hand, slowly stroking his cock to full attention as his mind reflected on the afternoon’s events in the shower, Mickey’s body glistening as the warm water cascaded over it. He imagined himself taking Mickey as only he could, hearing his cries of satisfaction as he fucked---no---made love to him, just the way he knew he liked it. “Mickey...Mickey...Mickey…” he moaned contentedly as he climaxed, then rolled over and slept, Mickey’s pillow wrapped tightly in his arms.


	6. Hard Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who requested warnings, please refer to end notes. SPOILER ALERT: Do not read those notes unless you are okay with knowing things about the chapter in advance.

The damp cold of the morning in Solitary settled in around Mickey’s stirring form. His back was in knots from all of the metal protrusions that pressed into it through the thin layer of filthy foam covering them. As he became more awake, his senses continuing to heighten, he could hear a rhythmic thudding sound, accompanied by muffled cries and supplications. He sat up slowly, shaking his head in a futile attempt to erase the hauntingly repugnant images that these sounds conjured up in his head. Finally, he heard the sliding of a cell door and the clanging of keys, followed by brief laughter, then whistling. “Safety comes at a price,” the whistling C.O. almost sang arrogantly, turning his head to look in at Mickey as he swaggered past his cell, “But I hear you like it,” he grinned, then continued to whistle on down the corridor.

“Fuck off,” Mickey muttered under his breath, pressing the palms of his hands against the small of his back and arching it in a fruitless effort at pain relief. He sat down on the offending cot, resigning himself to his current situation and refocusing his mind on creative ways to get Ian out of harm’s way. He hoped his breakfast might offer him an option, though he hadn’t a clue what to expect. 

After what seemed like way too long of a wait, although he had no idea what time he had woken up, the breakfast cart finally arrived. Again, the food looked and smelled way better than any prison chow should, and Mickey thought he would at least try to enjoy some of it this morning. “Eat first,” he told himself, fighting the urge to unwrap his napkin to look for a note. As he reached for his plasticware, he noticed the cellophane that encapsulated it had been punctured, and upon further investigation, he discovered a stainless steel spoon, its handle sharpened into a point. “Fuckers made me a shiv,” Mickey thought to himself with a quiet chuckle, as he tucked it into his slipper. 

Once he had finished up his breakfast, he unfolded his napkin, finding, this time, only three words, “Be Ready Always”. Mickey immediately understood that his friends in the kitchen were unable to ensure his absolute safety, so they did the next best thing, providing him with a means to defend himself. Mickey pulled the shiv from his shoe, stowing it under the foam on his cot, then sitting down, reliving the moments leading up to his shower session with Ian. Just thinking about Ian being forced to put Burman’s dick in his mouth made him sick to his stomach. He wondered if he had, prior to Burman’s exit. He wondered if Burman had been waiting for him in his cell, upon his return. He wondered if Burman had paid him a morning visit, or whether he would catch him after his shift at the infirmary. 

Then he let his mind go to a place where he’d fought to keep it away from, up until this point. Had Burman forced himself on Ian on his first day? Was that the reason for Ian becoming so suddenly and violently ill, the reason he wouldn’t talk to him or even look at him the next morning? He told himself it couldn’t have happened. Surely, Ian would have told him if it had. 

He spent the rest of his day replaying each and every moment he had spent with Ian, trying desperately to focus on the positive, to reassure himself that they loved each other, and that nothing else mattered. 

_______________________

Ian was met with friendliness in the chow line before his shift. He sat at the same table he and Mickey had occupied the morning before, and this time, one of the older Russian guys spoke to him. “So they got Milkovich in the hole, eh?” “Yeah,” Ian mumbled, keeping his fast filling eyes downcast. He toyed with his food, unable to eat more than a few bites, then rose from the table with an upward nod of his head to acknowledge the man with whom he had spoken. He averted his eyes as he passed the table of Mexicans, though he could feel their eyes burning into him. He avoided making eye contact with anyone as he made his way to the elevator, hoping not to run into Burman or anyone else that might fuck with him.

He considered himself lucky to have avoided Burman thus far, knowing, somewhere in the back of his mind, that they would eventually cross paths. It was this recurring thought, along with his fear for Mickey’s safety, that had kept him from eating, from sleeping soundly, from holding out any hope for a real future with Mickey. In his estimation, he, himself, would be lucky to leave prison alive at the end of his sentence, and Mickey’s murder was all but a foregone conclusion.

His eyes welled up with tears again as he exited the elevator into the infirmary, where he continued to avoid eye contact with everyone he passed on his way to the nurse’s station. “Good morning, Ian,” Teresa called from across the station, Ian nodding silently in response. “Come on over here. I have something to tell you,” she said, motioning for him to follow her into a vacant office. Ian followed her nervously, his stomach knotting up in anticipation of bad news.

“Ian,” Teresa addressed him, instantly recognizing the look of panic on his face. “It’s nothing bad,” she continued. Ian breathed a sigh of relief. “The letter from your doctor and your prescription came in. I got it after your shift yesterday,” she explained. “Okay…” he replied, mentally rehearsing the spiel he thought he might be able to give, in order to get some meds that might help him endure his inevitable encounters with Burman. 

“Well, I thought we’d keep your meds up here. This way you will be sure to get them everyday,” she offered. “Great!” Ian responded with a fake, half-smile. “Okay, so I heard about Mickey going into “protective custody,” she said, using air quotes. “What does this mean?” he asked, mimicking her air quotes. “Well,” Teresa began, hesitating as she searched for the kindest way to put it. 

“Let’s just say that sometimes the protection can...well... it can be costly, especially for a snitch,” she spoke haltingly, hating the sound of her words as they came out. Ian frowned and lowered his head, a lone tear escaping down his cheek. How could he be so concerned with his own situation, when Mickey was likely to endure so much worse, and all without the benefit of daily visits to the infirmary? 

“Teresa, is there anything you can do to make things any better for him down there?” Ian pleaded, tears now streaming down his face. “I’m already doing it,” she responded, rubbing Ian’s back, then handing him his meds and a dixie cup filled with water. “How does this make anything better for him?” Ian questioned, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll do my best to get word to him that you are safe,” she answered. “And I’m gonna do all I can to keep you safe,” she added, wiping the tears from his face with her thumbs, then hugging him into her. They had known each other such a short time, and yet they each felt a connection to one another that defied logic. “Kindred spirits,” Ian thought to himself, “Surely the work of Shim.” 

“Now, you’ve gotta get to work around here soon, so tell me when it is that you’re being assaulted,” Teresa said with an all-business tone. Ian blushed and turned away, ashamed of what he had allowed to happen to him, and unable to speak about it. “Ian, come on,” I can’t help ya if ya don’t tell me,” she beseeched him. “Well, it was when I left here…” he spoke in a barely audible whisper. “Both times,” he added with a bit more of a voice, blinking away the tears that continued to come. “And do you need medical treatment for this?” she pressed on, knowing he was uncomfortable, but needing answers to these tough questions, nonetheless.

“N...no,” he stuttered. “It’s just been oral so far...thanks to Mickey,” he shared reluctantly. “Thank God!” she exclaimed with heartfelt relief. Ian smiled, baffled as to why the fuck she gave a shit about him, any more than the countless other battered inmates that she treated on the daily. “I’ll take care of the rest. You’ll be on twelve hour shifts until further notice,” she smiled, handing him a stack of charts. “These need to be entered,” she instructed, brushing past him and exiting the office.  
__________________________

Mickey’s day had gone by at a snail’s pace, his recurring thoughts of what Burman---or anyone, really---could be doing to Ian torturing him mercilessly, the only break in his self-induced misery being the arrival of his lunch, which he enjoyed as much as was possible, under the circumstances, saving his napkin until he was finished, then opening it anxiously. 

“Visit soon,” was all that was written, and was followed by a small, hand-drawn heart. “What the fuck?” Mickey asked out loud. Was this some kind of joke? Was some shithead coming to rape him like he had heard in a nearby cell earlier? He had a shiv, but if he dared to use it on a C.O., he’d be fucked for life, if he wasn’t already. His heart began to pound, fearing the worst.

After nearly an hour of pacing back and forth in his cell like a caged animal, he began to rethink the possibilities. What if T or Ivan had somehow managed to set up a visit from Ian? He chided himself for even daring to think so optimistically. After all, he didn’t even know who these fucking notes were coming from. But eventually, he decided that he needed to keep even the falsest of hopes alive, just so he didn’t go completely nuts. Allowing himself this small measure of comfort enabled him to drift off to sleep briefly, his hand wrapped tightly around his newly-acquired shiv. 

His slumber was rudely interrupted by an eerily familiar voice,“Rise and shine, Cupcake! Your turn to give me some love.” As Mickey’s eyes opened and began to focus on the form in front of him, his hand tightened reflexively around the shiv. The desire to attack and kill Burman in that moment was so strong, Mickey could scarcely resist it, but he had to be smart. This guy was nearly a foot taller than him and outweighed him by at least 100 pounds. The only way Mickey could pull this off was to catch him completely by surprise, and even then, his odds weren’t very good.

Mickey began to consider the unthinkable alternative. Let this piece of shit fuck him, hopefully in exchange for him leaving Ian the fuck alone. “Your boy’s up playin’ nursemaid round the fuckin’ clock, so I figure ya could use some,” Burman mused, raising his eyebrows, then letting out a creepy giggle. 

“What d’ya mean, ‘round the clock’?” Mickey asked, trying to sound as friendly as possible, as he surreptitiously pushed the shiv under the foam on his cot. “Means he ain’t available to fuck during my shift,” Burman growled as he closed in on Mickey, opening his pants. “He will be,” Burman hissed into Mickey’s face, “Just not today...But you are!” Burman smirked as he exposed his immense tree-trunk of a cock. “Now take that fuckin’ jumpsuit off! And tell me ya want it!” 

Mickey stood, staring at the nasty, filthy, repulsive specimen that stood before him, unable to move a muscle. “I said take it off! And tell me how much you want me to fuck that tight little ass!” Burman demanded impatiently. Mickey swallowed hard, breathing deeply in an attempt to stave off the nausea that had hit him, once he caught a whiff of Burman’s rancid breath. 

“Need help?” he bellowed, tearing Mickey’s jumpsuit from his body and flipping him onto all fours on his cot. “Tell me!” Burman growled into Mickey’s ear as he pressed his hummungus, stiff cock against Mickey’s left ass cheek. “I do this...you leave Gallagher the fuck alone?” Mickey managed to squeak out. “I might be persuaded, ”Burman chuckled, slapping and grabbing at Mickey’s buttocks, then briefly fondling Mickey’s flacid dick. 

“Now TELL ME!!!” he screamed into Mickey’s ear, before clenching his teeth around Mickey’s earlobe. “I want it,” Mickey mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut, remembering Ian and the look on his face when he first saw him in their cell, his eyes filled with surprise, lust and—-just maybe—-love. But so fucking beautiful. So fucking worth it. Worth anything he’d have to do, without a second thought.

“What the fuck did you say? I didn’t hear you!” Burman spat through gritted teeth, drawing blood from the earlobe he gnashed between them. “I said I fuckin’ want it, asshole! Let’s get this bullshit over with!” Mickey barked, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth and biting down on it, the words, “I love you, Ian,” playing on repeat in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are things heard by one of the characters that insinuate rape. Also, there are circumstances at the end of the chapter that give the impression that rape is imminent. However, neither of our boys is actually raped in this chapter. 
> 
> I ask that you trust me.


	7. Visiting Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving a warning at the end of his chapter, though I don't really think it's necessary for this one. Check it if you feel the need.

Burman grasped Mickey by his hair, pulling his head backwards harshly, demanding that he repeat his words more sincerely. “I want it, sir,” Mickey hissed contemptuously. Burman slammed his head into the cinder-block wall with a frustrated grunt. 

“You better say it like you fuckin’ mean it, bitch!” he thundered, crashing Mickey’s head into the wall once more. Mickey saw stars. “I...I want it, sir,” he repeated, his pulse thumping painfully in his head. “Say PLEASE!” Burman snapped, wrapping his gigantic hand around Mickey’s neck. “Please,” Mickey coughed, gasping for air, once Burman finally let up enough that he could breathe. “What’s that? I didn’t hear ya,” Burman snarled, gearing up to smash Mickey’s head against the wall again. 

“PLEASE!!” Mickey was begging now, in a desperate effort to stop Burman’s unrelenting, heavy-handed physical abuse, though he knew what was to follow would probably be just as bad, if not worse. “That’s more like it!” Burman bellowed, exhaling contentedly. He spat into his own hand, then rubbed it roughly between Mickey’s ass cheeks and over his own colossal cock.

“This is it,” Mickey thought to himself mournfully as he imagined the disgusted expression on Ian’s face, upon learning of what he was about to have done to him. “Ian’s not gonna want me after,” he surmised, utterly devastated. “Can’t say I’d blame him either, he reasoned tearfully.

As Burman began the odious process of attempting to cram his gnarled sausage fingers into him, Mickey instinctively tightened like a vice, choking back the puke that was rising in his throat and tormenting himself further, in anticipation of the horrific assault he was about to endure. He told himself he never was good enough for Ian in the first place, and that he should have just taken his chances on his own, rather than getting Ian mixed up in all of his shit---again.

Burman tugged Mickey’s head back forceably by his hair again, and was literally centimeters from penetrating him when there came the sound of an obnoxious alarm, followed by a gruff voice, booming over the loudspeaker, “Shakedown!” Burman leapt to his feet, pulling his pants up and buckling them faster than the speed of light, then turning to let himself out of Mickey’s cell, locking the door behind him. 

“Shit!” Mickey exclaimed, scrambling to cover his clammy, trembling body with his tattered jumpsuit, then quickly hiding his shiv in his slipper once more. He didn’t know if Solitary would be included in the Shakedown. He figured not, but being that he’d never been down there before, he didn’t want to take any chances. 

Once he’d accomplished the stashing of the shiv, he had time to decompress, taking the opportunity to vomit, then brush his teeth and clean himself up. Blood continued to drip from his shredded earlobe, as well as his eyebrow and the corner of his forehead above it, but he figured there wasn’t much he could do about it in his current situation. 

After a few minutes passed, he breathed a reluctant sigh of relief, concluding that likely no one was coming to toss the Solitary cells. As his respirations and heart-rate slowed, in spite of the throbbing pain in his head, he began to realize how short-lived his reprieve could be, which, he figured, was all too quickly proving to be the case, upon hearing the jingle of keys a moment later. He turned away, hiding his bloody face, mangled ear and torn jumpsuit, praying whoever it was had come to ‘see’ someone else.

Within seconds, he heard his name being called,“Milkovich!” Mickey flinched as he heard the door to his cell opening. “Visitor?” T spoke more softly with a question in his voice, upon seeing Mickey’s frightened reaction and fragile condition. Mickey, recognizing his voice, spun around and looked up, absolutely stunned to see Ian standing next to T, smiling down at him. 

“Oh fuck yeah!” Mickey shouted with the excitement of a school boy, jumping to his feet and throwing himself into Ian’s waiting arms as he approached him. Ian pulled back, gripping Mickey at his waist, as his eyes moved over his boyfriend, tears forming instantly as he took in the disturbing appearance of Mickey’s rapidly swelling, bloody face and shredded earlobe, then catching sight of his obviously ripped-open jumpsuit. “What the fuck?!” Ian roared, pulling Mickey’s head into his chest and stroking it lovingly with his fingers. 

“He needs medical attention,” Ian said softly, staring pleadingly over at T, as he pressed his lips affectionately into the crown of Mickey’s head. “Can’t move either of ya now. Shakedown in progress. Gonna have to stay here for a while. I’ll lock ya in,” he said with a wink, turning to exit the cell. Ian sat on the cot, easing Mickey down into a seated position next to him, then reaching for the toilet paper, tearing some off and applying pressure to Mickey’s wounds. “Hurt?” he whispered against Mickey’s temple. Mickey nodded his head silently as his body relaxed fully against Ian’s. 

“So, how the hell did this happen?” Ian asked, continuing to squeeze Mickey’s earlobe in an attempt to slow the bleeding. “I could ask you the same thing,” Mickey grinned, wincing at the resultant pain in his face and head. “Seriously, man, who did this to you? Tell me,” Ian implored him. “Seriously...how the fuck did your ass get down here?” Mickey shot back, still managing to smile. 

As they stared into each other’s eyes, they both realized that none of that mattered, not at this moment, their most unexpected reunion trumping all else. “C’mere!” Mickey purred, pulling Ian’s face to his own and kissing him, sucking Ian’s lips into his mouth to nibble at their sweetness. Mickey was so damn happy to see Ian, he could just eat him alive. “Take this off!” he breathed into Ian’s ear, eliciting a full body shiver from Ian as he yanked at his jumpsuit, his own arousal growing with each sensual kiss, touch and rub from his sexy lover.

Once Ian’s jumpsuit was off, Mickey wasted no time in leaning Ian onto the bed and taking his ample cock into his hungry mouth. “You don’t have to…” Ian began. Mickey’s eyes traced their way up the length of his torso, fixing themselves on Ian’s, silently imploring Ian to shut the fuck up. He sucked at the tip of Ian’s cock eagerly. Ian arched his ass up off the bed, moaning ecstatically as Mickey flattened his tongue against the tender underside of its head while taking him further and further into his mouth. “Jesus Christ, Mickey!” Ian squealed as Mickey doubled his efforts, sliding his cock deep into his throat while pumping at the base with his right hand and fondling his asshole with the fingers of his left. 

Mickey knew how to suck Ian’s dick. In fact, it was probably one of his top three talents, in Ian’s estimation. He also knew when Ian was getting close---and he was. Mickey yearned to feel him inside him again. Nothing in the world gave Mickey more joy than to be physically one with Ian. It generated such a feeling of utter peace in him, of connectedness, and vibrance at the same time. He knew he belonged with Ian, a cosmic charge thrumming through him, body and soul, each and every time they made love.

Mickey pulled his mouth off Ian’s aching, pre-cum laden manhood abruptly, an instinctive, frustrated sigh escaping from Ian’s mouth before he could stop it. “Want you,” Mickey murmured, then flipped over onto his hands and knees. “No, Mick. I want you to do me,” Ian countered desperately, quickly removing a tiny tube of Surgilube from his slipper with a sexy smirk. 

Bottoming for Mickey had always been on Ian’s bucket list, but now that Mickey’s life was in such danger, he had to be sure not to leave that box unchecked. He wanted to experience everything with Mickey, but he feared they would run out of time, that he’d be left with regrets if he didn’t do this, and soon. 

“Naw, we ain’t doin’ THAT in this shithole!” Mickey objected. “Why not, Mick? I’m afraid if you don’t, then someone else will. And...and…” Ian paused, the growing lump in his throat making further explanation nearly impossible without bringing on a complete breakdown. “And what? That shit takes time,” Mickey warned, bolstering his argument against it. “I’d wanna do it so right for ya, Ian. You won’t like it otherwise,” he added with a knowing look. “But Mick,” Ian whined, his lips quivering as he struggled to keep his composure, “I want you...I...I love you.”

Mickey’s heart nearly exploded, all of his blood seeming to immediately rush to his already painfully engorged cock, his head buzzing with pain-killing endorphins. “He fuckin’ said it!” Mickey thought to himself as he tackled Ian down onto the cot with unbridled passion, kissing, licking and biting at Ian’s full, ruby red lips, then his pale, but rapidly flushing neck, and finally hovering over Ian’s beautifully protruding, fully-exposed clavicles, his breath inciting an erotic tickling sensation that made Ian squirm with anticipation. 

At last, Mickey dove in, pulling the thin, tender skin that covered them into his hot mouth voraciously, branding Ian with his trademark multiple times on both sides. Ian’s body writhed erratically beneath Mickey’s, his breath becoming increasingly ragged and shallow as his arousal piqued once more, the lovers’ exposed erections grinding against one another with burgeoning ferocity, sending intense electricity through the bodies of both men, bombarding them with overwhelming pleasure. ”Fuck!” they breathed simultaneously into each other’s gaping mouths, the sexual synergy of their delicious frotting driving them both to climax in record time. 

 

Copious amounts of cum spewed from both cocks as they erupted powerfully. Both men moaned uncontrollably, calling each other’s names incessantly throughout their magical experience, having lost all self-restraint and awareness of their surroundings. 

As the collectively heaving mound of flesh stilled, their stratospheric romp coming to conclusion, the two gradually descended to Earth. Mickey, his body still resting atop Ian’s, opened his eyes and stared down at the most gorgeous creature he’d ever laid eyes on. Ian’s eyes fluttered open, completely blown-out and glistening green. “Damn, Gallagher,” Mickey breathed, “You’re fucking everything.” 

It was at that moment, as Ian lay beneath Mickey, captivated by Mickey’s alluring scent, hopelessly lost in his hypnotic blue eyes, that he felt a warm, wet sensation on his chest. He begrudgingly tore his eyes from Mickey’s to investigate. All of their activity must have spurred on Mickey’s bleeding, and now blood was absolutely gushing from all three injury sites. 

“Hey,” Mickey whispered, tilting Ian’s chin up to reestablish eye contact, then planting a slow, sultry kiss on Ian’s swollen lips, “I love you, too.” Ian returned the kiss with a sweet smile, then broke the news, “Mick, you’re bleeding a lot. We gotta get you to the infirmary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some violence in continuation of last chapter's scenario, but again, no one is actually raped. There is some unsavory pre-coital contact though.


	8. Play Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All! New Chapter for your reading pleasure. Same warnings apply! Happy Reading!!

“T!” Ian yelled, hoping to get the friendly C.O.’s attention as quickly as possible. “Shhhh,” Mickey advised, “He’ll come ta us. Can’t be yellin’ for someone like that. You don’t know what kinda risk he mighta put himself at to do this for us.” “Mick...here. Hold this,” Ian instructed, replacing his hand that gripped Mickey’s earlobe with Mickey’s, then continuing, “It’s all good. He’s in the clear. He told me. He’ll be tipped off when he’s gotta move me,” Ian countered, “But I wanna see if he can move YOU first,” Ian explained, leaning in gently to brush his mouth over Mickey’s puffy pink lips, as he held pressure on his head wounds. 

“Naw, I’m cool. I want you safe before anyone needs ta worry ‘bout me,” Mickey insisted. “No!” Ian began. “Gallagher!” T called out, effectively putting an end to the argument, “Gotta get ya back up to work. Milkovich, I’ll be back. Or I’ll be sending someone else for you. If that ends up being the case, don’t mention me. Whoever comes will notice your condition and have no choice but to get you to the infirmary.” Mickey nodded in affirmation of the plan. Ian didn’t move, opting to continue rendering medical care to his love instead.

“Gallagher, he’s gonna be okay. Let’s go,” T prodded. “Go,” Mickey snapped, pulling away and doing an abrupt about-face. T opened the cell door and Ian walked out, looking back wistfully at Mickey, who kept his back turned until he heard the elevator door open, then close, after which he immediately spun around to face the corridor, ever vigilant, determined not to be attacked again, even if it meant using his newly acquired weapon.

Within minutes, he heard the elevator door open again. He moved to the back of his cell, looking and listening intently. He could hear the familiar whistle of the C.O. who had assaulted one of the other prisoners that morning. Then he heard a voice---THE voice---Burman!! “Fuck!!” Mickey screamed in his head, “Two fuckin’ rapists headed my way!” 

Mickey had to think fast. He couldn’t possibly ‘off’ them both with such a rudimentary, makeshift stabbing implement. If he tried to defend himself at all, he figured he’d end up dead for sure. He decided at the last second to act as if he had passed out on the cement floor of his cell, hoping these two pieces of shit had at least some modicum of decency, so as not to rape an unconscious man. He figured Burman wouldn’t do it; he enjoyed forcing compliance far too much to fuck someone who wouldn’t resist at first, or that he couldn’t feed submissive lines to. And since Burman seemed, to Mickey, to be the prototype for a C.O. rapist, he thought there was a pretty good chance the other guy was cut from the same cloth. 

Mickey took his position on the floor next to his cot, sprawling himself out awkwardly, in an attempt to make it look as if he had fallen there, unconscious. The blood that rushed from his head and earlobe made for quite the realistic scene as the two guards approached, having what was, for Mickey, an unnerving conversation.

“Man, this bitch is tight, but I hear he takes it on the regular, so I’m pretty stoked. Was here earlier, but then…” the second C.O. interrupted Burman, “Yeah, that bullshit shakedown! An hour and a half wasted! Found nothing! Someone tipped all those fucks off!” “Yeah, and fucked me outta some prime ass...at least temporarily,” Burman giggled perversely. “Tell ya what, Henry,” he continued, “I’ll let ya hold ‘im still for me. Then we’ll have him blow ya after.” “Yeah, okay,” Henry agreed, rounding the corner with his keys, then catching sight of Mickey lying motionless, bleeding profusely from the head and ear.

“Jesus Christ, Burman! What the fuck did you do to this faggot? This ain’t gonna be no fun now!” Henry complained with a sigh of disgust. “Well, ya can still have seconds, if ya want. I gotta get rid a these blue balls. ‘Sides, I bet this’ll wake him the fuck up,” Burman growled, grabbing at his own crotch for emphasis. “It’s all you,” Henry said, ceding Mickey to Burman as he unlocked his cell. Burman rushed right in, lifting Mickey from the floor with ease and tossing his lifeless body onto the cot with a thud. 

“Henry, get in here! Least ya can do is watch. He might be a good one for awhile. ‘Least til the Mexicans get ‘im,” Burman chuckled, positioning Mickey on his stomach and pulling his jumpsuit down to expose his ass. Henry stepped in, adjusting himself as he looked on. “You ain’t lyin’. That shit looks nice,” Henry admitted with a smirk as Burman spread Mickey’s cheeks, popping a finger inside him. 

Burman exposed himself and began to rub against Mickey, but stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of footsteps. “Fuck!” he yelled, fumbling in an attempt to cover himself and Mickey as quickly as humanly possible. “Burman! That you?” a voice called from down the hallway. “Yeah...uh...got a...medical situation here,” Burman answered uncomfortably, fully aware that T had literally caught him with his pants down. 

“Oh yeah?” T responded, raising his eyebrows suspiciously as he turned to fetch the gurney that was stored in Solitary for just such occasions. “And what seems to be the problem?” T continued, as he pushed the gurney toward Mickey’s cell. “Don’t know,” Burman answered, his eyes, downcast, his face flushed, his dick still semi-erect, though deflating rapidly. “And what do you think, Henry?” T asked, noticing the waning bulge in his pants as well. Henry shrugged, turning toward Mickey in order to avoid T’s accusing eyes. 

“That’s what I thought!” T barked. “Bet the warden would find this shit real interesting!” he remarked sarcastically. “Now, help me get him on the fucking gurney!” he yelled, clearly putting himself at risk with the content and tone of his comments. “Whatcha gonna do if we don’t?” Burman hissed back at T. 

“C’mon, Burman. This is...more than I...more than I wanna get into,” Henry stammered, “Too many part-time C.O.s lookin’ for full-time work.” Burman glared at Henry, then at T. “Here!” Burman hollered, hoisting Mickey up off the cot and dropping him onto the gurney in one fluid motion. “Our day will come, bitch!” he snarled into Mickey’s ear as T wheeled the gurney out of the cell and headed for the elevator. 

“Sick fucks!” T muttered under his breath as he hit the button for the elevator. As T navigated the gurney into the elevator, he heard Henry call out, “Hold that!” T hurriendly hit the ‘Door Close’ button, breathing a sigh of relief as he watched the doors slide shut, just as Henry came into view, Burman screeching, “Henry! Adolf ain’t gonna like ya goin’ rogue. You best get your ass back here!” “Yeah, well, he also ain’t gonna like you pickin’ off the primo white pieces before he gets a chance ta road test ‘em hisself!” Henry retorted, smashing his finger onto the elevator button in an attempt to reopen it. “Too late, motherfucker!” T sneered. 

“Thanks, man,” Mickey piped up, lifting his head off the gurney to get a look at T. T jumped, having honestly bought Mickey’s ‘out cold’ act, startled by his voice. “No problem, dude,” T replied, trying to remain calm, despite the intensity of the situation and Mickey’s unexpected outburst. Once T’s hands were steady again, he pulled his phone from his belt, making a call to the infirmary to warn of their arrival. He made sure to emphasize that the inmate he was bringing was on the ‘watch list’, knowing the warden would be informed immediately.

As the elevator opened to the infirmary, it was Teresa who greeted T and Mickey. “Right this way,” she spoke authoritatively. “Warden says he stays in here,” motioning toward a small room. “Hello, handsome!” she addressed Mickey. “Gonna get you fixed right up,” she assured him, turning to find Ian striding through the door. Mickey beamed, his smile unbelievably stunning, given the condition of the rest of his face. “Well, Ian, I can certainly see…” Teresa began, pausing as Ian shot past her, immediately taking care to clean Mickey’s wounds, preparing for them to be closed. 

“Alright then!” she said, switching gears, “I’ll get what we need. Thanks, T!” T nodded respectfully and turned to leave the room. “T!” Ian called to him, pointing down at Mickey, “You gonna report any of this shit to the warden?” T turned and looked at Ian sadly, “Can’t. At least not personally.” As he redirected himself toward the door, he glanced over at Teresa, then added, “I AM working on somethin' though.” 

“What the fuck did he mean by that?” Ian asked Teresa, as she wheeled an entire supply cart up to Mickey’s bed. “Ian,” she said quietly, removing the necessary supplies from the cart, “The less you know, the better. Trust me! Will ya?” Ian gave a reluctant nod, then gripped Mickey’s hand. “Just squeeze my hand if anything hurts,” Ian instructed Mickey, kissing him lightly on the forehead. 

“Ian, this ain't nothin’, believe me,” Mickey responded, his blue eyes sparkling as he took in the glorious sight of Ian, hovering over him, a look of concern etched into his forehead, “But I’ll hold your hand anyhow.” Ian gasped at the thought of what those monsters must have done to Mickey, pondering how best to broach the subject, when Teresa, who had just shot Mickey up with lidocaine and was threading the needle to stitch up his earlobe, broke the brief lull in in the conversation, “Anything else I need to sew up?” Ian looked up at her, as if she’d just punched him in the gut. 

“No, Ma’am,” Mickey replied, “I was real lucky...both times.” “Both times?!” Ian screeched in horror, gripping Mickey’s hand more tightly. “Ian, don’t worry. I’m fine,” Mickey said evenly, rubbing his thumb over Ian’s knuckles soothingly. 

“Mickey, you’re doing great!” Teresa interjected, saving Mickey from an awkward retelling of his ordeal. “Not my first rodeo, but thanks...for everything. I know you’re the reason Ian got this job, and I know you been tryna keep him safe,” Mickey replied appreciatively. 

“No need to thank me. This is my job. I like helping people. I just wish I could do more,” Teresa lamented, the expression on her face speaking volumes as to her disdain for the terrible abuse being inflicted upon innocent men on a daily basis, and her inability to prevent it. 

“There ya go! Good as new!” Teresa announced as she and Ian worked to bandage Mickey’s wounds. “A few things you two should know,” she added, the corners of her mouth turning downward. Ian and Mickey both looked up, giving her their full attention. “There will be a C.O. assigned to guard this door, 24/7,” she explained, pausing to collect herself. “And, of course, it can’t be the same person all day and all night. And...and I can’t be here all the time either, so…” Teresa suddenly became so filled with emotion that she couldn’t speak. She raised a finger and excused herself. 

“Teresa! Wait!” Ian called to her, “Tell me what we’re supposed to do!” “Ian,” Mickey spoke calmly, “Don’t worry. I get to see you all day...while I’m here. That’s all that matters.” Mickey pressed Ian’s hand to his lips lovingly, closing his eyes, savoring this moment with the love of his life. 

Tears poured from Ian’s eyes, despite his efforts to be strong for Mickey. He wanted to know what had actually happened, but was afraid to ask, so all of the worst-case scenarios played on repeat in his head. Ian was coming unhinged, his mind filled with horrific images of Mickey being raped and beaten, all while he looked on, helpless to do anything about it. He had to DO something! But what? 

“I’m trying to get T assigned until seven tonight. Don’t know who will be on nights though. Ian, you’ll be escorted to your cell after your shift. After that, I’m afraid you’re on your own. I’d stick close to my cell if I were you. I can let ya shower here before you go, if that helps,” Teresa offered, her tone ever so slightly more optimistic.

“Thanks, Teresa,” Ian said graciously, approaching her to give her a hug. “Ian, like I said, I only wish I could do more. You two are a beautiful couple. I can see how deeply you love each other. You both deserve so much more…” her voice trailed off as she sobbed into his chest. “Teresa, you’ve done plenty. And we’re grateful,” Ian comforted, holding her in his strong, caring arms as she let go of all of the pent-up frustration, guilt and sorrow she’d been holding onto for years. Finally, after all this time, she felt that someone understood her---her situation---how securely her hands were tied, in terms of actually helping anyone in a lasting way. 

“Something’s gotta be done!” Ian proclaimed resolutely. “Ian, some good people are doing all they can to help. Please...STAY OUT OF IT!” Teresa pleaded, taking Ian by the hand and leading him over to Mickey’s bedside. “Now,” she whispered at a barely audible volume, making a tremendous effort not to fall to pieces. She looked at Ian, then at Mickey, “I’m gonna go. Spend some time together.” 

Teresa turned for the door, closing it behind her as she left. “Hey,” T muttered as he passed her on his way to his post outside Mickey’s door. Teresa stopped, looking up at him fearfully. He made brief eye contact, mouthing the words, “It’s done.”


	9. Two Ships...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All! Here's a new chapter. I will be publishing another one tomorrow! I know this one is suspenseful. Happy Reading!

Teresa and Ian were certain Mickey had a concussion, based on his wounds and swelling alone. He refused to give details, citing to his terrible headache and the desire to just lay quietly with Ian by his side, which Ian happily obliged, rubbing his back and holding him close during their alone time before the end of his shift.

Teresa had put in for a doctor visit and hoped he would order a CT scan, surmising that Mickey’s head wounds were the result of blunt force trauma, most likely from a cinderblock wall, which she knew, from experience, was very unforgiving. She had, unfortunately, become quite accustomed to drawing her own conclusions about prisoners’ injuries, since most of them clammed up upon reaching the infirmary, fearful that the sharing of any details concerning the circumstances behind their condition might lead to further abuse, or even death. She frequently embellished inmate accounts of abuse, feeling confident that she was making them more accurate, based on the omissions she knew they routinely made, the positive results of which often were the ordering of necessary tests for the preservation of prisoners’ health.

When it came time for Teresa to leave for the night, she instructed the night nurse to wake Mickey frequently, which was protocol for a concussion, and would also serve to keep whomever was sent to guard Mickey’s room honest. She and Ian both left feeling confident that no harm would come to Mickey overnight.

T was Ian’s escort back to his cell, the two quietly discussing the events of the day on their way. Ian was horrified to hear what had actually been going on when T returned to Solitary to get Mickey. Of course, T couldn’t tell Ian for sure how far things had gone with Mickey and the two slime-balls that Ian now wanted, even more than before, to kill. He shook his head in disbelief as T recounted some of the revolting words that were exchanged. Then he added, in scarcely more than a whisper, and much to Ian’s surprise, “And I got it all!”

“What?!” Ian exclaimed incredulously. “Shhhhh,” T countered quickly, realizing that he may have just made a pretty big error in judgment, “Gallagher…you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone…not even Milkovich!” “All of what? » Ian spouted off. “You got video of…I’ll fuckin’… kill that motherfuck…” T grabbed him and covered his mouth with his hand. “Shut the fuck up!” he growled under his breath, as they neared Ian’s cell block.

Once they reached the cell, T let go of Ian, giving him a hopeful look, which Ian returned with a reluctant nod. “Gonna lock ya in for the night. Here’s dinner,” T said, handing Ian a paper bag. Teresa packed a tray up for you,” T said kindly, adding, “Trust me. We’ll talk again.”

“But…” Ian began, stifled by the sound of his cell door slamming shut. T locked Ian in for safe keeping and headed for the elevator in silence. Ian peered out his door, suddenly feeling isolated, alone---claustrophobic, even. He thought of Mickey, beaten, bloody, maybe even… No! He couldn’t go there. He needed to be with him, to watch over him, to make sure the nightshift treated him properly, that they didn’t just let him sleep. He paced back and forth in his tiny cell, working up a sweat, even though his freshly-washed hair as still damp. He’d washed it, despite his own fresh stitches, doing his best to keep that part of his head covered and dry. He could feel his heart racing, his face flushing, his respirations becoming deeper and heavier…  
____________ 

Ian’s eye’s blinked open, slowly focusing on the ceiling and the top bunk above him. As he rolled onto his side, he recognized that he was on the floor of his cell. “Must have passed out,” he thought to himself, pushing himself up into a sitting position, then reaching for the sink to brace himself as he pulled up to stand.

He stared at his blurry reflection in the stainless-steel sheet metal that served as a mirror in his cell, noticing blood dripping from the crown of his head, down his forehead and approaching his left eye. “Fuck!” he muttered to himself, reaching for a towel and applying pressure to the oozing wound. He thought briefly about calling a guard’s attention to it, in hopes of being taken to the infirmary for emergency treatment, but then thought better of it, recognizing that it would totally suck to possibly get stuck in a bed up there and not be able to see Mickey.

He chided himself for getting so worked up, blaming himself for passing out and vowing to calm himself and accept the fact that he wouldn’t be seeing Mickey until morning. He wrapped the towel around his head as tightly as possible, then got himself undressed and situated in the bottom bunk for the night. “I love you, Mick,” he breathed, closing his eyes and willing himself to get some rest.  
___________________

“Milkovich,” the night nurse, Erika, seemed to be yelling, for what Mickey thought must have been the millionth time, as she shook him awake---AGAIN. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbled, turning his back on her in an attempt to return to sleep. “I’m sorry, but you’ve gotten harder to wake up each time, so I had your CT appointment moved up. The Doc’s not gonna make it here until later, but wants this done. Says you can be seen by a specialist at the hospital, if necessary,” she explained, moving a wheelchair toward his bed. “What the f...I’m fine!” Mickey insisted, becoming more and more agitated. “And your mood could be another sign that your brain is…” Mickey cut Erika off. “It’s a fuckin’ sign that I’m tryna get some fuckin’ sleep ‘round here!” he bellowed indignantly, adding, “And I ain’t goin’ to no fuckin’ hospital. Ian’s comin’ ta see me!”

“Mr. Milkovich, if you don’t get this checked out, he may not have anyone to come and see. This is serious, and I don’t expect to have to fight with you. I’ll simply get the guard to...” “Nope, I’m good, but can I be back by 7? Really wanna see my…uh…partner, ya know?” Mickey almost pleaded, suddenly becoming much more compliant.

“I understand, but it’s 6:30 now, so I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Erika answered, watching Mickey’s face fall as she did. “Just please use the urine bottle. Your transport will be here soon,” Erika instructed, trying her best to avoid Mickey’s pitifully sad eyes, which were breaking her heart. Teresa had told her a bit about the situation, and there was nothing she would rather have done, than to have Mickey back in the infirmary, waiting for Ian at the start of his shift. Unfortunately, that was not something in her control.  
____________

Ian awoke feeling lightheaded, the towel he had wrapped around his head now stuck in his blood-caked hair, his bandage no longer covering his wound. “Fuck!” he growled, willing himself out of bed and up onto his feet, as he heard the word, “Count!” Flustered and frantically attempting to dress while having to piss like a racehorse, he missed his turn, crashing noisily through his door seconds after he should have given his number.

“Gallagher!” Burman hissed, licking his lips, then continuing, “You’re late!” Ian averted his gaze, doing his best to ignore Burman’s presence, just as he had on his first day. “You’re gonna acknowledge me! I’m in charge here…and I’m gonna make sure your pretty little ass never forgets it,” Burman snarled, poking Ian in the ribs with his baton harshly, causing him to double over in pain.

It was then that Beau, who had come over to assist with what he thought might have been an insubordination problem, noticed the blood oozing from Ian’s head. “What the fuck, Burman?” Beau questioned, obviously thinking Burman had hit Ian in the head with his baton. “He’s an insubordinate, pansy, piece-of-shit faggot!” Burman responded, “Didn’t even touch him.”

“Well, I think his head needs stitches or somethin’, and I’m not gonna be on the hook for this shit! Takin’ him to be seen!” Beau spoke boldly, pushing past Burman to take Ian roughly by the wrist. “Come with me,” Beau said firmly. Ian spun around, nearly losing his balance, and allowed himself to be dragged by Beau, who had now begun questioning Ian.

“Who hit you in the head?” he asked softly, as they approached the elevator. “No one,” Ian answered honestly, although Beau doubted him. “C’mon, don’t waste my fuckin’ time. I’m tryna help ya,” Beau chided, raising his voice a bit. “I hit it on the top bunk. They sewed it up, but it broke open. I’ll be fine. Just might need a few more stitches,” Ian assured him as they rode the elevator up to the infirmary.

Once the elevator doors opened, Beau approached Erika at the nurse’s station, Ian in tow, relaying what Ian had just told him and pointing out the wound site. Ian, who was still feeling woozy, spun around just in time to see the elevator doors closing with a gurney inside. “Wait!” he called out, certain it was Mickey lying on that gurney, and that he must be in critical condition. “Noooo...Mickey, wait!!” he shrieked, as if someone were stabbing him. Erika took one look at Ian and guided him toward a bed in the open bay.

“Please! I need to see Mickey!” Ian pleaded, tears billowing down his pitifully distraught face, as he continued to beg. “Shut the fuck up, you whiney, little bitch,” one of the bedridden prisoners hollered. 

“Gallagher, calm yourself!” Erika warned, looking about the room at all of the other inmates, who were now beginning to stir, thanks to Ian’s outburst. She had hoped to have enjoyed a peaceful end to her shift, giving report to Teresa, then departing before anyone, besides Mickey, woke up. Unfortunately for her, Ian’s inopportunely timed arrival, coupled with his loud-mouthed protests and inmate reactions, were certain to make that virtually impossible. 

Teresa arrived for her shift, just in time to witness all of the chaos. “Teresa! Please!” Ian screeched, hopping up from the bed and rushing at her. “They took Mickey away, and I...I didn’t get to…” “Ian, come here!” Teresa said with a soft concern and a hint of exasperation. Ian posted to her immediately, his eyes tear-filled and pleading. 

She led him into the supply room, then commanded him to “Sit!” as she investigated the failing stitches in his head. “Hold still,” she continued as she looked more closely, grabbing for a set of gloves with one hand. “But…” Ian objected, trying desperately to make her listen to him.

“Ian,” she cut him off, “Mickey is going to Good Samaritan to have a CT scan done. He was becoming more and more difficult to rouse throughout the night, so Erika contacted the doctor to get an earlier appointment. She texted me early this morning. He is in good hands, and…”

“What about the fucking cartel?!” he screamed into her face. “Ian, no one knows he’s going. He’s safe! Now please...take a deep breath and try to relax while I stitch this up,” she responded compassionately, as she prepped his wound to be reclosed. 

“Can I go with him?” Ian pressed her, his hands shaking wildly, his face, white as a sheet. “Now, Ian, you know that’s not possible,” she answered, beginning to work on his head. “Just rest a bit after this, and I’ll give you some chart work. We’ve fallen behind on it,” she continued. 

Ian let out a deep, mournful sigh, feeling utterly powerless over his situation once more, but now even more fearful for Mickey’s life than before. He had taken such comfort in the idea that Mickey would be, at least temporarily, housed in the infirmary, where he could spend much of his time nursing him back to health, secure in the knowledge that T would be there to protect him when he wasn’t. 

Just as Teresa was finishing up, there came a knock at the supply room door. “Teresa,” Erika called in as she opened the door.” “So sorry, Erika. I’m about finished. Then I’ll be out to take report,” Teresa replied apologetically. “That’s fine,” Erika assured her, “Just wanted to be sure everything was okay. T is manning the transport this morning, so that’s good.”

Ian instantly breathed a huge sigh of relief, lifting his eyes to Teresa’s and giving a slight smile. “Good as new!” Teresa announced, smiling back at Ian as she bandaged his freshly-stitched scalp. 

“Good!” Cuz I’m ready to work. Gotta stay busy or I’ll go nuts worrying about Mick, “Ian explained. “You really think he’s got more than just superficial wounds?” he asked. “Don’t know, but what I do know is, if he does and we don’t catch it…” she drifted off, obviously remembering a past incident. “What?!” Ian asked, panicked. 

“I once lost someone…” she said absently, her mind clearly somewhere else. The two sat in silence for a moment, before Teresa said, “C’mon, I’ll get ya started on the charting. I have to take report. Erika needs to get the fuck outta here before her kids wake up.”

Once Ian got into the charting and didn’t have to think about each entry any longer, his mind began to drift. He thought about all of the possibilities, with regard to Mickey’s injury. He made a trip to the nurse’s station about every 15 minutes to see if there was any news from the hospital, but lunch came and went without so much as a phone call. 

Ian had been unable to eat, and was beginning to feel nauseous when Teresa approached him, “The hospital called…” she said in a faint whisper, as if the wind had been taken from her lungs. Ian’s eyes widened in anticipation. “I saved your tray. Let’s go eat. And we can talk,” Teresa suggested, putting her hands on Ian’s shoulders and rubbing them lightly.


	10. Synchronicity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots to take in this Chapter! Read carefully so you don't miss anything! Enjoy! Lots more to come!

“So, Officer Burman, I’ll ask you again. Is this or is this not your voice?” Warden Petrov questioned, after replaying a portion of the audio recording that had been provided to him anonymously on a jump drive. “I...well...I mean...yeah, but clearly someone...they…” Burman was at a loss for words and about ready to piss himself, he was so horrified by the situation he found himself in currently. 

Warden Petrov glared at him intimidatingly, thrumming his fingers on his desk, awaiting an answer. “It’s...it’s been...altered,” Burman finally choked out, his face bright red’, his forehead beaded with sweat. “Is that so?” Petrov growled angrily, “Well, would it surprise you to know that I’ve already had the authenticity of this recording investigated by the Illinois State Police, and that they have deemed it to be an original recording?”

Burman looked down at his feet, shifting his weight uncomfortably, then offering up one final, feeble defense, “Well, Henry instigated the whole thing. Did ya hear him fuckin’ Barneby earlier that mornin’?” “Funny you should mention that, since Henry told me that YOU were the ringleader, in cahoots with Adolf and the Aryans, running a prostitution ring here at Stateville!!” Petrov countered viciously, his voice rising in volume and intensity until his face was purple and the veins in his neck were bulging.

“I have enough on you to press several felony charges, and I fully intend on doing just that!! And if you want a prayer of even the slightest degree of leniency, you’d best start telling the truth and giving me as much information as possible!!” Petrov barked furiously. 

Burman thought momentarily about implicating T, since he suspected it was he who had made and submitted the recording, but decided against it, instead planning to let Adolf and the boys investigate and handle him as they saw fit. Burman took a deep breath, allowing it to escape gradually between his clenched teeth, attempting to ease his anxiety before responding.

“Lawyer,” Burman finally said with a false, put-on note of calm in his voice, looking up from the floor as he caught sight of two burly uniformed Illinois State Police Officers approaching him. Warden Petrov shook his head in disgust as he watched Burman being read his rights and led away in cuffs, sickened, yet relieved to know that at least some of the sexual violence occurring within the prison might be curbed. 

Petrov knew Stateville had a long-standing problem with organized, for-profit sexual exploitation, as did both of the institutions where he had worked prior to his tenure at Stateville, which had begun nearly two years ago. It had taken this long, however, for anyone to offer him any hard evidence of who was orchestrating it. Offenders of this type, C.O.s and inmates alike, usually did all of their dirty dealings in the cut, in order to avoid detection. But now that Petrov had T’s recording, along with the information that Henry gave up freely in exchange for immunity, he wasn’t going to let go of this. He intended to prosecute Burman to the full extent of the law, and to make sure Henry never worked as a C.O. again.

The next problem Petrov sought to tackle was being sure that all inmates in Solitary were checked medically, and that they were given HIV tests, regardless of how recently they’d had one. He also intended to request that all prisoners complete a questionnaire concerning their sexual history in Stateville. He knew he wouldn’t get honesty from all of them, but hoped he would at least get enough to start putting the pieces together, to expel as many guilty C.O.s as possible, to get the Aryan Brotherhood (AB) in check, along with any other prisoners who were involved, and, hopefully, to improve the health and mental outlook of many inmates in the process. 

__________________________

 

“Teresa! What’s wrong? Tell me what the fuck they said!” Ian demanded frantically, reading Teresa’s pained facial expression. “Ian, the radiologist saw something on Mickey’s CT scan. He’s probably seeing a specialist as we speak,” Teresa explained in as tranquil a voice as she could manage, knowing Ian was about to blow a gasket. “What the fuck did they see?!” Ian howled hysterically, attracting the attention of nearly everyone in the infirmary. 

“Ian,” Teresa began, shutting the office door, just in case he decided to scream again, “Mickey has an aneurysm.” She held Ian’s hand in hers tightly, waiting for the gravity of what she’d just shared to hit him. “NO!!! NO!!! NO!!!” he wailed, jumping to his feet, then throwing himself onto the floor and proceeding to bawl his eyes out. “Ian, try to calm down. It may be operable,” Teresa suggested quietly, once there was a vocal lull in his tantrum.

“Yeah...okay,” Ian responded curtly, his lips pressed into a thin, straight line and he rose to his feet with great effort, opening the door and exiting the office. “Hey!” Ian heard Mickey’s voice call out jovially. Ian did a double-take as Mickey’s gurney came into his line of vision. “Mickey!” he shouted, following T as he wheeled Mickey into the small room he had occupied the night before. 

“You’re back!” Ian cheered with a bright smile, as he looked down at Mickey’s battered, yet beautiful, and positively beaming face. “‘Course I’m back. Didn’t think I’d let those sons-a-bitches keep me away from you, did ya?” Mickey replied, reaching his hand out to grip Ian’s. Ian squeezed it tight, desperate to ask all of the necessary questions, to know what they were dealing with, but not wanting to upset Mickey. He was in such a great mood and looked so damn happy. Ian couldn’t take that away from him---not now. 

He figured the news couldn’t be good. If the thing was operable, surely they would have kept him at the hospital to perform the surgery. It was at that moment that Ian vowed to enjoy whatever time they had left together to its fullest. He’d never, in his entire life, loved anyone the way he loved Mickey, and he’d already foolishly wasted enough time being apart from him. This was it! 

“Mickey,” Ian breathed between the sweet kisses he was planting on Mickey’s lush, pink lips, “I...wanna...I wanna get...married,” he spoke sincerely, pausing mid-sentence to envelope Mickey’s mouth in his own multiple times. “Alright...Alright,” Mickey chuckled, his face literally aglow with surprise and excitement. This was better than he could have ever imagined! Not only did Ian love him, but he loved him enough to want to spend the rest of his life with him! It didn’t matter to Mickey how long that was, in this moment, only that Ian was his forever, something he had always hoped for---dreamed of, when he dared---ever since their first unexpected encounter involving a gun and a tire iron, nearly a decade ago. Ian felt like home to him, and finally, he was home. 

___________________

Teresa stood outside the door with T, her eyes filling with tears as she overheard the exchange between the two lovers. “Teresa, don’t do this. We do all we can here, but it will never be enough. We knew that, goin’ in,” T consoled her with a warm hug. “But it can be fixed. How can they let insurance be an issue?” she whispered as she wept softly into T’s strong, defined chest. 

“Teresa, you’ve been here long enough. You know the answer to that already,” T pointed out, knowing it would only upset her more, but feeling that the sooner she accepted the reality of Mickey’s situation, the better off everyone would be. “There are some silver linings to all of this though,” T added with a half-smile. Teresa perked up, hoping to hear something miraculous. 

“Burman’s in custody!” he announced jubilantly, “And Henry got fired!” Teresa looked at T, the expression on her face not at all what he had expected. “What?” he asked, puzzled by her troubled demeanor. “I know it’s sad about Mickey, but hey, they offered him to stay up here for the rest of his time, as long as he testifies and doesn’t try any legal tricks,” T offered, hoping to lift Teresa’s spirits. 

“Terrence,” she whispered, sounding absolutely devastated, “This has been the worst day of my life since…” “I know...since Max,” T said, finishing her sentence. “Didn’t realize how close you’d gotten to Milkovich,” he muttered incredulously. “It’s Ian I feel close to,” she clarified, “But that’s only part of it.” T looked at her pensively, awaiting further explanation. 

“I never told you the whole story about Max, did I?” she asked, her voice quivering. “I know he was an inmate---wrongly accused and frequently abused, according to you---who was killed here at Stateville,” T said, relating what Teresa had told him before. “Yes,” she acknowledged, “But do you know why he was killed? And did you know that we loved each other?” she asked, tears overtaking her eyes as she looked at him. 

“Okay, so maybe I don’t know the whole story…” T admitted, her distress pulling at his heartstrings, an effect to which he was unaccustomed. “Why don’t we sit down and have a Coke while ya fill me in,” he suggested kindly. “Okay, I’ll go get it. You stay here and protect them,” she all but ordered, nervously gesturing toward the door. 

As T stood, awaiting Teresa’s return, he heard Ian yell, “No! You’re not signing anything! We’re fighting this! You’re gonna get outta here and have that fuckin’ surgery!” T pushed the door open a crack to be sure this disagreement didn’t escalate into something more. Then he heard Mickey’s reply, “Ian, I just wanna spend what time I got left with you! Doc says stress ain’t good for it, so I don’t wanna go to court for this shit. I’ll fuckin’ lose anyway. Judges fuckin’ hate me. Bad enough I gotta testify against the cartel.”

T peeked in, catching Ian kneeling on the chair beside Mickey’s bed, literally begging, “Mickey! Don’t do this! I want you to be with me...for the long haul. I want you healthy! And it’s possible, damn it!” “Naw...too high risk. I could die on the table,” Mickey shot back, matter-of-factly. 

“Plus, I ain’t got no way to pay for it, so…” Mickey sighed dismissively, adding, with sudden and great enthusiasm, “Now get over here! We got a wedding to plan.” Ian rose from the chair, seating himself on the side of Mickey’s bed, his eyes moving adoringly over every inch of Mickey’s face, memorizing every freckle, every expression line, every perfect feature. “How do they even do that shit in here? A wedding...ya know?” Mickey asked with an irresistible grin.

Teresa had returned in time to catch the end of the conversation, which put her right over the edge again, her body shaking as she wept, her heart breaking for them both. “Ian will never let this stand. He’s gonna fight!” she predicted. “I have to say, I think you’re right,” T admitted, "Though I doubt it'll do any good." “Unfortunately, I usually am. It’s a curse,” Teresa sighed in resignation. 

“Okay, so tell me...Why was Max killed?” T asked, wanting to figure out what her second reason was for this being the worst day she’d had since his death, and how the two events were related. “Alright,” Teresa began, pouring them each a cup of Coke from one of the cans she had brought over, “Max was basically being used as bait in what amounted to a sting operation aimed at rooting out the organized sexual exploitation that was plaguing the prison at the time.” She paused, taking a long drink from her cup. 

“So he actually allowed himself to be abused? And it went too far? And he died?” T questioned, rapid-fire. “Not...exactly,” she stammered, taking a deep breath before she continued. “The AB, who was running it all, found out he was working with the warden, who is no longer the warden, by the way...and they beat him to death…” Teresa began to sob, so T pulled her up from her chair and held her to him, doing his best to console her, but feeling woefully inadequate.

“But not before they tortured him…” she added with a sorrow so deep, she nearly collapsed with grief. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” T comforted, literally holding her up and rubbing her back as she continued to wail uncontrollably. “Trust me, this day is not THAT bad,” he insisted, once her emotional outburst had toned down a bit. 

“Look at me,” she said, her lips quivering as she directed his face toward her, “If ya think Burman and the Aryans don’t know who supplied that fucking recording, you’re naive. T...you’re in danger...and…” her eyes began to fill up again, her attempts at blinking them away, futile. “I’m fine,” T assured her, feeling the moment and dipping his head to kiss her softly. Teresa reciprocated and the kiss intensified, their encounter stopping short of full-on groping only because Ian had walked out Mickey’s door and cleared his throat to make his presence known. 

T and Teresa were both red with embarrassment. “Don’t worry, you guys, I’ll be asking you to look the other way a lot while Mickey’s here,” he explained, “But he’ll be outta here soon. I’m gonna petition for his Compassionate Release. Then I’m gonna find a way to get him the surgery he needs, whether he likes it or not. And Mickey’s gonna be my husband...And we’re gonna be fucking happy!” he rattled on resolutely through the tears that were now streaming down his face, “Real fucking happy!” he repeated emotionally, telling himself, “Believe it, and Shim will make it happen.”


	11. Let's Make A Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on a roll! Expect frequent updates over the holiday! As always, your comments are encouraged and appreciated:) Happy Reading!

Ian’s life in prison, on the surface, seemed to have stabilized somewhat over a week’s time, at least from all outward appearances. With Burman out of the picture, he felt he could come and go more freely, in general, and had taken it upon himself to basically transform his entire persona, like Clark Kent into Superman. 

He had been working steady 7 to 7 shifts, spending as much of his day as possible with Mickey, who was going rather stir-crazy being sequestered in a tiny room. He seemed to have a calming effect on Mickey, so Teresa even allowed him to take the laptop into Mickey’s room to do his charting. He worked hard, while also keeping Mickey company and watching him as he slept. 

Ian revelled in the glorious sight of Mickey’s peaceful slumber, although at times, he panicked, checking to be sure he was still breathing. Ian felt like he was on a roller coaster. Each day, he felt blessed to be spending quality time with the love of his life, but also feared the day that he would lose him forever. He felt good about assisting in the care of sick and injured inmates, but also powerless to stop the recurring violence that brought them there in the first place. Then there was the research that monopolized the remaining portion of his waking existence, which continued to grow as his sleep hours shrank. 

Once Ian left the infirmary each night, he went straight to the prison library to research Mickey’s situation and how to improve it as much as possible. His research focused on four main topics: Obtaining Compassionate Release for a terminally ill inmate, Filing a Prison Insurance Appeal, How to Decrease the Likelihood of an Aneurysm Bursting, and How to get around the Illinois Law against the marriage of two inmates. Needless to say, this work should have drained the life from anyone, but especially a stressed-out prison inmate who was also working 12-hour shifts. 

This scenario, however, seemed to the have the opposite effect. Ian, instead of being exhausted, found himself energized and unable to sleep, driven to work through all of Mickey’s scenarios until he saw a positive outcome on the horizon. He made collect calls to family members, requesting that they obtain legal counsel for Mickey, although no one was willing to do it for him. 

One day, out of complete desperation, Ian confided in a fellow inmate, Deems, whom he had seen in the library multiple times. They had spoken briefly before, Deems, about five years his senior and well-seasoned, confiding in him about an upcoming trial he was scheduled to testify in. Mickey had told him a bit about Mickey’s situation with the cartel, since it was similar, so he felt comfortable asking his advice as to how to get a decent lawyer for his other matters. Deems told him he could hook him up, and to meet him by the phones the next day after his shift. 

Ian felt Mickey needed to pursue all legal avenues as soon as possible. Mickey, on the other hand, was not in favor of going to Court. Period. This made discussing strategies with him quite difficult for Ian, until he finally won him over by telling him about the discriminatory law against the marriage of two inmates. Once Mickey understood that the only possible way to marry Ian was to find a loophole and petition the Court, he became surprisingly more open to it. This, in turn, allowed Ian to discuss other matters with him, including the introduction of a healthier eating and exercise regimen in order to decrease his health risk, relative to his aneurysm.

However, when it came to Compassionate Release or filing an insurance appeal, Ian was on his own. Mickey was adamant that he did not want to be released since Ian would still be in prison, and that he was not having the surgery, no matter what. Ian accepted Mickey’s point of view, then did what any self-respecting boyfriend would do, under the circumstances---pursued both in secret. He knew that, without that surgery, Mickey’s days were numbered, and he couldn’t bear to imagine a life without him. He also knew that getting the surgery as an inmate was a long-shot, and that Mickey’s best chance at it would be as a free man. 

It was amid all of this tumult that the D.A. came to the infirmary to visit Mickey. Teresa escorted him in, motioning for Ian to step out. “Actually, I have a second matter to speak with Mr. Milkovich about, one that also involves Mr. Gallagher,” the D.A. explained, “I’m Ellis Ball, from the Cook County District Attorney’s Office,” he continued, shaking Ian’s hand. “So, Mr. Gallagher, if you wouldn’t mind staying, I will discuss that matter with both of you first.”

Ian nodded his assent, retaking his seat behind the laptop. Mickey sat up in his bed begrudgingly, wondering what the fuck Ball could possibly want with Ian, and wishing he’d leave them both the fuck alone. After all, he’d already welched on his deal with Mickey by forcing him to testify against Chico, after telling him he would not have to do so, as long as he was deposed and signed some affidavits. Now he was trying to involve his man in something. Mickey didn’t trust the guy, and he definitely didn’t want him having anything to do with Ian.

“Gentlemen, I’ve come here to ask that you testify on behalf of the State of Illinois in a legal matter of the utmost importance, especially to you and the countless other inmates that have been affected,” Ball began, hoping to finesse Ian into compliance on moral grounds. 

“Nope!” Mickey yelled, cutting him off before he could finish his thought. “Now, wait a minute, Mick,” Ian piped up, much to Mickey’s displeasure, “Let the man finish. Maybe he can help us, too.” Ian smiled at Ball, adding, “Please...continue.” Mickey glared over at Ian, but all Ian did was widen his grin and wink at him. 

“The State has evidence to suggest that both of you were sexually assaulted by James Burman, while he worked here as a Correctional Officer, and we would like you to testify to it. “Hmmm...Well, I’m sure you are aware of Mickey’s medical condition,” Ian began. “Yes,” Ball acknowledged, putting a grim expression on his face for effect. “And yet, you continue to coerce him into testifying in another case, one that puts him in significant daily peril, over and above his medical condition, which, as I think you are aware, is terminal,” Ian continued, doing is best to remain as unemotional as possible, though he could feel an all too familiar sadness beginning to well up inside of him.

“There is a reason for that,” Ball interjected. “He agreed, and…” “The fuck I did!” Mickey interrupted, getting red in the face. “Mick, please...calm down,” Ian pleaded, rising from his seat and heading straight for Mickey to try and settle him down. Ball pulled out a signed agreement, pointing to a section that pertained to Mickey’s willingness to testify against the cartel, if necessary. “Mick, it’s not what they tell you. It’s what’s in writing. And you signed this,” Ian confirmed, Mickey shooting him an icy glare. 

“Mick, this is why we need to be careful this time, to know what we’re signing, and that our best interests are being served,” Ian spoke like an attorney. “So what is it that you can guarantee us in writing, in exchange for our testimony?” Ian asked. “Look, I can subpoena you. I don’t HAVE to give you anything,” Ball countered, like the weasel he was. 

“Yes, and I can give whatever testimony I want,” Ian smirked. He was playing hardball. He knew it was a gamble, but he had to at least try. Despite all of the research he had done, he knew there was a good chance that time could run out for Mickey before he could get anything accomplished. This guy, if properly motivated, could make things happen quickly, and Ian knew that. 

Ian went to great lengths, using his medical expertise to persuade Ball of the tenuous situation the State was in, due to the uncertainty of Mickey’s life expectancy, underscoring the fact that the additional stress of his upcoming testimony hanging over his head was not helping matters any. Ian laid it on thick, using his own emotional response as evidence of the tragic truth behind his words. 

By the time their conversation ended, Ian had extracted a promise from Ball to look into Mickey’s insurance to see if there was any way to revisit the possibility of him having the surgery. Mickey balked at this, at first, until Ian convinced him that he could be completely well again, and that he wanted them to have a long, happy marriage. 

Ball also agreed to file for an exception to the law against inmate marriage, based on them having a committed relationship prior to their incarceration, although, as he shared with Ian, he felt it was a long-shot. Lastly, he agreed to filing for Mickey’s Compassionate Release, if all else failed, but only after both trials were over, Ian and Mickey both having testified, as agreed upon.

Of course, Ian pointed out that Ball’s word wasn’t worth shit, and that, before either of them signed anything, he wanted all of the State’s promises in writing. Ian could tell that Ball was the kind of silver-tongued devil that trapped unwitting inmates into horrendously dangerous situations for as little as possible in return. He refused to let that happen to him or Mickey. He also threatened to sue the State of Illinois in a civil case, if he and Mickey didn’t get what they wanted.

Mickey could tell that Ball wasn’t the kind of guy that took kindly to being threatened, but he had to give Ian his props for doing it anyway. They sure as fuck weren’t going to get anything they wanted by being docile and compliant. He knew from experience that nothing in prison worked that way. Besides, Ian’s tough guy act was really getting him hard. “Nice guys finish last,” he thought to himself as he raised an approving, wickedly arousing eyebrow at Ian.

Once they had finally finished up with Ball, Ian started right in on Mickey about his diet and a suggestion that he put in to take Mickey out to the yard to walk, as part of an exercise regimen he had been researching. “Yeah, Mick, turns out exercise will help ya, not put you at any additional risk like we thought,” Ian began. “I’m gonna share this info with Teresa, and I’m sure she’ll…” 

“How ‘bout you share with her to leave us be for an hour or so? I think I wanna have my first exercise session in private,” Mickey interjected with a sultry smirk, letting his eyes trail up and down Ian’s beautifully taut, now standing form. “Go!” Mickey urged Ian, reaching beneath his sheet to touch himself, “And while you’re at it, don’t forget to ask her for some extra lube!” Mickey barked, then softening his voice to a near whisper, “We got some time...and I’m feelin’ it.” Mickey licked his lips longingly as he watched Ian’s sexy ass disappear out the door.


	12. In Private

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Happy Thanksgiving! I am grateful for all of your readership! Comments welcome and encouraged!
> 
> Happy Reading!

“Push that chair in front of the door!” Mickey commanded, Ian obliging him, forthwith. “And take off that fuckin’ canary suit!” he added, “I wanna look at ya!” Ian pulled at the neckline of his jumpsuit haltingly, the snaps popping open slowly, one at a time, an alluring crimson blush overtaking his face, neck and upper chest. He focused his gaze on the floor in front of him, at first, gradually lifting it until his eyes met Mickey’s, blinking bashfully, his lips curled into a wickedly seductive pout. 

Mickey was instantly rock-hard, struggling to breathe as he took in Ian’s incredibly sexy essence. Mickey rose from his bed, enveloping Ian forcefully in a tight embrace and pulling his irresistible lips into his mouth, devouring them ravenously, yet still yearning for more. He could feel Ian’s body trembling against his own, their mutually intense longing immediately palpable, overpowering, a tidal wave of desire, leveling them both in an instant.

“Want you,” Ian panted desperately into Mickey’s open mouth, between smoldering kisses. “Mmmm…” Mickey moaned in response, biting and sucking at Ian’s deliciously swollen lips. Mickey’s tongue trailed sensually from Ian’s mouth to his ear, sending goosebumps up the back of Ian’s exquisite neck, as he sucked and bit at it fiercely, pressing his own body impossibly closer to Ian’s, the rising temperature in the room quickly coating them both in a slick layer of sweat, two thin pairs of boxers the last remaining barrier between their throbbing cocks and the breathtaking, skin-to-skin nirvana both craved.

“Take them off!” Ian whined, stripping his boxers off, then pulling impatiently at the waistband of Mickey’s. “I’m good,” Mickey whispered calmly, taking a momentary breather to get a second look at his phenomenally gorgeous mate, whose bulging package was providing quite the distraction. The more he tried to look away, focusing on Ian’s face or torso, the more it drew him in, the object of his desire, the guarantor of his satisfaction countless times before. 

“Not today,” he told himself, attempting to redirect his efforts in furtherance of the promise he had made to Ian, and to himself. He spun Ian around 90 degrees, then guided his naked ass to the bed, pushing his upper body, face down, onto it, allowing Ian’s legs to dangle to the floor. Mickey slowly and methodically brought his hands up between Ian’s thighs in praying position, then parted them, kneading and massaging the innermost areas near his ball sack with his thumbs. 

“Fuck!” Ian breathed, pushing his ass backward in an attempt to coax some of Mickey’s attentions in the direction of his fast-tightening balls. Mickey chuckled, giving them a quick, tactile once-over, then taking each of Ian’s perfectly-round butt cheeks in hand and pulling them apart as he raked his fingertips over their tender insides, sliding his tongue between them to lick a stripe from the start of his sack to the end of his crack. 

Mickey then fixed his focus on Ian’s tight, little pink hole, taunting him with his talented tongue and lightly caressing his balls until Ian was shoving his ass greedily into Mickey’s face. Mickey teasingly tongue-fucked him, introducing a lubed finger, oh-so-gradually, delicately, painstakingly. “Mickey!” Ian screeched in desperation, amid the needy whimpers that spewed from his lips in a steady rhythm that matched Mickey’s efforts. 

Mickey’s own cock ached to feel the inside of Ian’s taut little ass, so much so, that it had already begun to leak---to twitch, even. He had to control himself. With two fingers still left to add, he doubted either of them would make it without a premature explosion. He slowed his pace with Ian, recognizing the level of frustrated torture he would surely be bringing on them both, but doing so, regardless, in the name of eventually giving Ian the fucking of a lifetime. 

“Up on your knees,” he purred into Ian’s ear, as he finessed Ian’s lower body up onto the bed, his index finger still inside him, moving slowly in concert with his hand, which continued to brush against his balls softly. Once Mickey had Ian in position, he resumed his ass-eating, alternating his tongue and one, then two fingers at an increasingly moderate pace, stretching and tasting, then stretching some more, all while Ian begged him, with everything he had, “Mickey! Please! FUCK ME!”

“Not ready yet,” came Mickey’s muffled response from behind, an unwelcome interruption in the oral-anal pleasure Mickey was so adeptly providing. “I am, see? I promise,” Ian pleaded with Mickey as his asshole successfully took in a third finger. Mickey’s tongue swirled the perimeter of Ian’s opening, his mouth then fully engulfing Ian’s balls as all three of his fingers gingerly made their way inside of Ian. “Oh fuck!!!” Ian screamed, throwing his head back as Mickey’s middle finger scratched at his prostate. Mickey smiled, repeating the motion until Ian was literally shedding tears of ecstasy.

“Now...you’re fuckin’ ready,” Mickey purred into Ian’s ear as he mounted him from behind, fondling Ian’s cock and preparing for his long-awaited entry. “Mickey...want you so fucking bad…” Ian hissed, his heart pounding with anticipation as the tip of Mickey’s thick cock pressed into him. Once Mickey had gotten that far, he stopped, continuing to stroke Ian’s cock and coo into his ear. “Gonna take ya slow...Tell me if it's too much.”

_________

It had been nearly an hour since Ian had asked Teresa to stay away, so she figured it would be safe to return and at least check with T to be sure everything was okay. The pressure of knowing Mickey’s condition made for a very tense situation for Teresa, since she also knew Ian’s perception of Mickey’s condition would be clouded by his own participation in what could only be described, in Teresa’s mind, as a risky activity, considering his recent diagnosis. 

Upon her arrival, T assured her that Mickey was fine, moving on to the subject of Burman’s trial, which Ian had shared some tidbits about, when he had left the room to fetch the lube. “Does the D.A. know the audio recording came from you?” she asked nervously. “Not officially,” T replied. “And what exactly does that mean?!” she questioned, clearly becoming alarmed. 

Just then, there came from Mickey’s room a sudden outburst, “Fuck yeah, Mick, I fucking want it! Hard!” after which a chorus of moans, groans and hisses followed, together with the squeak of the bed, all at consistent, almost melodic intervals. Teresa and T stopped talking and just stared at each other. T couldn’t move without someone else relieving him, and Teresa felt badly leaving him there to bear such uncomfortable witness alone. So they both stayed, the passion being expressed on the other side of the door ultimately getting the best of them. 

“Oh fuck yeah, Mick!” Ian yelled, gritting his teeth as Mickey fucked him harder, just as he’d asked, his right hand moving skillfully over Ian’s monster of a cock simultaneously. Mickey’s intuitive feel for Ian’s body and its reactions stoked Ian’s burgeoning fire, rendering him unable to speak, beyond the animalistic whines and grunts Mickey drove from deep within him. 

”So fuckin’ tight for me, Ian! Fuckin’ incredible!” Mickey panted, completely awe-stricken by the heavenly feeling of being inside the love of his life, as he hastened their pace and intensity, breathing more and more heavily as he neared his climax. The bed banged loudly against the wall now, as he railed Ian relentlessly, so taken with the beauty of the body and soul of the man beneath him, he could anticipate his every wish and whim, giving him precisely what he needed throughout their ethereal experience.

All at once, Mickey knew he had him. He could feel Ian falling apart under him, his hole pulsing, his buttocks clenching as he nailed Ian’s prostate, just about every time, not to mention Ian’s confirming cries of pure pleasure. “Oh my, fu...This is...so fucking...intense! Mick!” Ian’s voice echoed out into the hall, his breath ragged, his hair dripping with sweat.

T grabbed Teresa roughly by the waist, pulling her body into him and kissing her hard. Her hands instinctively flew up to his face, cupping it as their kiss deepened, their tongues clashing wildly. T nibbled and pulled at Teresa’s full, supple lips with his teeth, Teresa’s breath catching in her throat, a rush of endorphins rendering her lightheaded and unsteady on her feet. 

“T,” she breathed, shocked and startled by her body’s reaction to this entire scenario. T’s cock pressed painfully against his zipper as he pushed Teresa against the door, grinding his hips against hers as the sounds of Ian and Mickey’s simultaneous explosions spurred him on.

Ian had never felt such an intense orgasm in his entire life, and wondered, based on Mickey’s performance and vocal utterances, whether Mickey had either. Ian literally shook from the inside out, the waves of his pleasure vibrating forcefully through Mickey’s body as they both came. Mickey had been so wonderful, so perfect, and now, as Mickey flipped him onto his back, Ian staring into his blissful, love-filled eyes, he was so fucking beautiful. As the thought of Mickey’s impending death crossed Ian’s mind, marring what had, up until that moment, been one of the most flawlessly fantastic experiences of his life, he felt nauseous. He physically couldn’t bear the thought of losing this man. “Mickey, you’re so...so… amazing ...and ...beautiful ...and...and I love you!” Ian managed to choke out before breaking down completely, despite making every effort not to, for Mickey’s sake. 

Mickey, chalking all of Ian’s emotionality up to what had been, for both of them, an extraordinary lovemaking session, just laughed and held Ian close, mumbling sleepily, “Right back at ya! Love you, too, man,” after which he passed out in Ian’s loving arms.

After dry-humping T as discreetly as possible in the hallway outside Mickey’s door for the better part of ten minutes and nearly to the point of orgasm, Teresa, upon hearing someone moving a piece of furniture inside the room, pulled back, straightening her clothing, then excusing herself, “I...uh...have to check on a patient.” “How about that coffee tonight?” T called after her. “Yes, I’d love that...tonight,” she responded, turning away, blushing. 

By the end of their shift, Ian and T had discussed Ian’s plan to meet Deems at the phones, Ian assuring T that he would be fine, reminding him that he had routinely visited the library for the better part of a week, without incident, and really didn’t feel he was in any danger, now that Burman was gone. 

Convinced Ian was right, T rode the elevator with Ian, saying goodbye to him as he exited en route to meet Deems, then continued on to the basement level to retrieve his car. He had asked Teresa to meet him at the coffee shop in the nearest small town, and wanted to be sure he got there first, hoping to find a flower shop that was still open.

As the elevator neared the lower level, it stopped abruptly, the light inside shutting off as it did. “Hello, T,” a familiar voice hissed from out of the darkness.


	13. 9-1-1

Ian walked hurriedly toward the bank of phones, noticing right away that Deems was already there, waiting. As Deems caught sight of Ian striding toward him, he ducked into the dimly lit corner at the end of the phone bank, motioning for Ian to join him. Figuring that Deems might be in some kind of danger in connection with his upcoming testimony, Ian checked out his surroundings as he neared the corner, immediately noticing what looked like a small group of Mexican prisoners approaching. 

Ian was torn. He was certain they must be there to fuck Deems up, probably over his impending court appearance. He didn’t know whether he should continue to approach and attempt to help Deems, or turn and run, in the name of self-preservation. Before he had a chance to give his dilemma any further thought, the mob closed in on him, dragging him into the corner where Deems still stood. 

“Word is, you’re Milkovich’s bitch! That right?” the tallest, most heavily-tattooed guy in the group spat into Ian’s face, as he grasped him by the neck and slammed him against the wall, the others handily demobilizing Ian’s limbs and covering his mouth before he could make a move to free himself. Ian glared back at him defiantly, then glanced over at Deems, who just looked away. “Yeah! Guess that makes you a snitch bitch!” one of the younger guys taunted, while digging his fingers into Ian’s left forearm as he held it firmly in his grip. 

Ian tensed and twisted his body suddenly, attempting a self-defense move that Carl’s girlfriend had practiced with him, but to no avail. “Better answer, sweetheart!” a third guy, also heavily tattooed with a menacing skull elaborately inked between his eyes barked. 

“Fuck off!” Ian snarled, making a second attempt at freeing himself, again failing miserably, this time earning an uppercut to the chin for his efforts. “Deems!” the guy with the chokehold on him hollered, “Get over here and show this hoe what we do to snitches and their associates!” 

Deems looked on guiltily. He’d actually started to sympathize a bit with Ian, after having heard his and Mickey’s story. He reluctantly approached Ian from the side, suckerpunching him in the right eye, then squaring off and pummeling Ian, alternating between his face and gut until he was out of breath and Ian could no longer stand on his own, his nose bloodied, both eyes nearly swollen shut, his lower lip split wide open and gushing blood as well. “Tell Milkovich HE won’t be this lucky, if we get our hands on him,” one of Ian’s captors hissed. 

The rest of the guys continued to hold him up while their fearless leader reared back, lifting his right foot, then kicking Ian’s left leg out from under him---backward. Ian heard a loud snap, then saw stars, an excruciating pain radiating up his leg and down through his foot at the same time, as the thugs collectively let go of him, his limp body sliding down the wall, landing in a bloody heap on the floor as everything went black. The last words he heard were, “He talks, you’re both dead!”

_______________________

Teresa paced back and forth at the nurse’s station impatiently. It wasn’t like Erika to be this late, though Teresa knew that sometimes she had trouble settling her kids in before she left. She was a single mother of three, also supporting her deadbeat ex-husband, thanks to a real scumbag lawyer and some bad luck, so she couldn’t afford childcare, which did complicate her life considerably. 

Normally, Teresa wasn’t one to make an issue over ten or fifteen minutes, but today was different. She had plans to meet T for coffee, and frankly, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on him. He’d had her so hot and bothered, with the help of Ian and Mickey and their wild session, that she could hardly contain herself. In fact, she doubted she’d be able to even finish a cup of coffee before inviting him to her place, where she fully intended on fucking him silly. 

She was just about to text Erika, out of complete frustration, when the phone at the nurse’s station rang. “Bringing your boy up. He’s fucked up pretty bad,” a young C.O.’s voice came over the phone, obviously rattled. No one working night shift had the medical expertise Ian had, so Teresa braced herself, afraid she might need to call for an ambulance, especially being that Erika had not yet arrived. 

Teresa stood outside the elevator, fearing the worst, her heart pounding, her hands shaking and sweating. She silently chided herself for opening herself up to care for an inmate again, her thoughts then turning to T and the danger she was certain he was in. “You really know how to pick ‘em,” she told herself, just as the elevator doors opened, revealing Ian’s blood-caked and lifeless form, haphazardly tossed onto a wheeled laundry cart. 

“Oh my God!” she shrieked, unable to mask her horror at the sight before her, “IAN!!” she cried, rushing to him and attempting to rouse him, effectively making quite a spectacle of herself in front of the patients, who now looked on with morbid curiosity. 

“Call 9-1-1!” she yelled at the C.O., Mike, who had brought Ian up. “This is a compound fracture that needs to be set, ASAP! And there may, by the looks of things, be internal bleeding. No time to wait for a transport van!” she added, making the executive decision as she continued to assess his extensive injuries, fumbling about for sterile dressing, then attempting to control the bleeding from Ian’s open leg wound. 

Once Mike had made the call, Teresa grabbed the phone from him and began sharing her assessment with the operator, frantically asking, “Are they en route?!” after each sentence she spoke. She demanded that Mike glove-up and assist with applying pressure to Ian’s multiple face and head wounds, while she continued to tend to the leg, as best she could.

“Jesus Christ, Ian! Who did this to you?!” she asked in vain, taking a moment to open his jumpsuit a bit to check his torso for any additional injuries. It was then that she found a note, scrawled on a napkin in what looked like blood. It read, “KEEP YOUR YAP SHUT MILKOSNITCH”.

Just then, Teresa heard a scuffle back near Mickey’s room. “There’s some shit goin’ down out there...and she fuckin’ said 'Ian'! I’m goin’ the fuck out there!!” Mickey howled. “Milkovich! You ain’t ‘lowed outta ‘dis room!” came the reply from Tyrone, the C.O on nighttime guard duty. “Like hell!!!” Mickey bellowed back at him, clearly winded, most likely from trying to force his way out of his room, Teresa figured. “Mickey,” Teresa called to him, “Just wait! Trust me!” 

Teresa had broken into a full-on sweat by the time the paramedics arrived, taking over for her and working quickly to get him stabilized for transport to the hospital. Teresa debated on what to do. She knew Mickey would be absolutely uncontrollable if he didn’t get to see Ian, but, under the circumstances, she worried that he would react just as badly or worse if he did. 

As Mike pressed the button for the elevator, Teresa made a split-second decision, after putting herself in Mickey’s place. If she were him, she would want to see Ian, no matter what. “Please,” she beseeched the paramedic at the head of the gurney, “Bring him here. His lover will lose his shit if he doesn’t get to see him.” The guy shot her a judgmental look, then quickly wheeled Ian toward Mickey’s room. 

“Mickey,” Teresa called out, running in ahead of the gurney. “Ian’s in bad shape, but I knew you’d want to see him,” she explained, trying to prepare him, as best she could. “Please...stay calm. They’re taking him to Good Samaritan, where he’ll get the treatment he needs,” she finished breathlessly, racing over to his bedside to take his hand. 

Mickey batted her hand away, then hopped up out of the bed, running for the gurney. “Ian! Ian!” he screamed, bursting into tears as he lowered his face to Ian’s, kissing him softly on the only small spot on his forehead that had somehow miraculously escaped injury. He slowly lifted his head up, fixing his eyes on Teresa’s. “Who the FUCK did this?!!!” he growled savagely. “I’m gonna fuckin’ KILL ‘EM!!” Mickey’s voice boomed, the veins in his neck and forehead popping out as though they could explode at any moment. Even Ian’s eyelashes fluttered at the sudden volume spike in Mickey’s voice, which didn’t go unnoticed by Mickey. 

“Ian,” he whispered, moving closer to Ian’s badly beaten face again, “I know you hear me. They’re gonna fix ya up, then you’ll be with me. I fuckin’ love you...so much…” Mickey paused, too choked up to continue. 

“Sir, we need to go,” the first of the two paramedics spoke up, grabbing the end of Ian’s gurney and beginning to push it toward the door. Mickey nodded silently, watching as Ian and his caregivers disappeared down the hallway, a pitifully forlorn expression overtaking his face. “Mickey, he’ll be alright,” Teresa comforted him, reaching for his hand, once again, this time gripping it tightly. “I sure hope so, at least,” she thought to herself, as she did her best to smile confidently at Mickey.

“Teresa!” Erika screeched frantically, “Come quick!” Teresa laid Mickey’s hand down gently onto his chest, reassuring him that everything would be alright, and promising to send Erika in with something to help him relax a bit, then running for the nurse’s station. “What is it? Kids okay?” Teresa asked Erika, her face flushed, hands shaking once more.

“Yes,” Erika answered, taking a deep breath. “What then?” Teresa questioned impatiently. “Come on,” Erika began, putting an arm around Teresa, “Let’s go sit down in the office.” 

“Erika...what the fuck is going on?!” Teresa raised her voice, tugging at Erika’s arm, as she yanked her in the opposite direction, pulling her into the office. “Sit,” Erika insisted, Teresa now taking note of Erika’s tear-filled eyes. Erika looked away, swallowing, then opened her mouth to speak, though no voice came out. 

Erika’s flustered manner was spooking the shit out of Teresa. She’d never seen Erika this way before, in the nearly ten years they’d worked together. She was a tremendously strong woman, who had survived her share of personal tragedy, not to mention having witnessed much of the same prison violence and cruelty that Teresa had, without letting it get to her the way Teresa often did. “Did Ian Code on their way out of here?” Teresa finally asked, a look of terror in her fast-filling eyes. 

Erika shook her head. “It’s...it’s...T,” she stammered, Teresa now noticing the bloodstains on Erika’s scrubs for the first time. “Where is he?!” Teresa demanded, amid the heart-wrenching sobs that she let loose from deep in her chest. “Is he…” “She couldn’t finish her second question, but Erika had now collected herself enough to answer the first one. “He’s on his way to Good Samaritan...finally. There was a mix up over two ambulances being called here,” she explained, still unable to look at Teresa. 

“Tell...me...what...happened,” Teresa choked out, one word at a time, in between each harsh, staccato breath her body was taking involuntarily, in a desperate effort to re-oxygenate itself after her emotional outburst. “Teresa, someone...truthfully...really I think...I think it was more than one---they shanked him. I did my best...to control the bleeding...with what I had…” Erika shared reluctantly. “...And?” Teresa begged, her tear-soaked eyes pleading for answers. “Honey...they just took so long to get here…” Erika trailed off, unable to continue. 

All at once, Teresa rushed out of the office, making a beeline for the phone at the nurse’s station. She picked it up, immediately placing a call to the Good Samaritan ER.

“Erika...Please...Mickey needs to be medicated,” Teresa called over her shoulder, after hearing his agitated voice rising in volume and intensity, “NOW!”

“Hello... This is Teresa Lewis at Stateville Prison,” Teresa spoke in an official tone, “I need the status on a recent ER arrival, a C.O. named Terrence McKenna...Yes...I’ll wait…”


	14. The Luckiest Man

“I’m sorry, Ms. Lewis,” the C.O. in the elevator began, “But I can’t allow anyone on or off the elevator right now. The entire prison is in lockdown.” He had received notification of this, just moments after Teresa had entered the elevator, bound for her car. “Oh come the fuck on!” she screamed hysterically, “My...my...friend is dying, for Christ’s sake!”

“Sorry, ma’am, but I’m under orders,” was all the C.O. could say. “Look! I’ll give ya all the money in my purse, if ya let me off. My shift was over nearly an hour ago anyway. No one even knows I’m still fucking here!” Teresa yelled angrily, adding, “I swear to fucking God, if either of them dies, I’m gonna sue the fuck out of this prison! And your name...Officer Green,” she threatened, reading his name from his badge, “will be added to the suit!”

Green reluctantly allowed the door to open, freeing Teresa to head to her car, bound for a visit to Good Samaritan, where she planned to see both T and Ian. She had to smile, despite her rancid mood and extreme state of worry, at the effectiveness of her scare tactic. “Dumbass motherfucker,” she chuckled to herself triumphantly, “I don’t have money for a damn attorney.” 

Her mind was bouncing from one tragic reality to the next, as she exited the prison lot. And, in all three cases, she marveled at the common denominator: Fucking Stateville! Her corrupt employer, which she knew, in her heart of hearts, deserved to be shut down. How she wished she could do precisely as she had threatened, and sue the shit out of the place! But what would she do without her job? Her benefits? The necessities that she, unfortunately, depended upon, in order to live.

It was then that she realized what she did have that could be of use---good insurance! She knew that if she was the one with the aneurysm, she would be scheduled for the surgery already. “Yes! That’s it!” she shouted gleefully. She hummed the theme from “Against All Odds” as she approached the emergency entrance at Good Samaritan, then said a quick prayer before exiting her vehicle.

_________________________________

“IAN!!!” Mickey bellowed in his half-sedated state, for about the 50th time since Erika had taken over for Teresa. She had already redosed him twice, and couldn’t give him any more medication without a doctor’s order. It was getting quite late, and his big mouth was causing quite a commotion on the entire unit. If there had been any inmates in the infirmary who were unaware of Ian and Mickey’s relationship, this was no longer the case. 

The sedative Mickey had been given seemed to loosen his lips, rather than relaxing him, his incessant cries for Ian, and intermittent, tearful apologies for ever getting Ian wrapped up in all of his shit made it impossible for anyone within earshot not to know exactly who Ian was, as well as why Mickey was in the private room. 

“Mickey,” Erika said in a soothing voice, “You need to be quiet. Ian’s not here, and the stuff you’re saying could put him in further danger.” “Ian’s in more danger?!” Mickey growled, trying his best to get out of bed, despite the restraints that Erika and Tyrone had used to essentially tie him into it earlier that night, for his own safety. 

“Tyrone!” Erika called out nervously, Tyrone rushing in and heading straight for Mickey’s bed---not his first rodeo. “Milkovich! Gotta stay put! I keep tellin’ ya!” he barked, Mickey scowling at him in return. “Get these...fuckin’...ropes offa me!!” Mickey slurred contemptuously. 

“I told you, Mickey, if you settle down, I’ll let you on the phone with Teresa when she calls from Good Samaritan. It’s the best I can do. But if you keep this up, when the doc calls, I’ll get a heavy-duty tranquilizer for ya….and you’ll be out cold. It’s up to you,” Erika explained. She hated talking to him this way, but he really was driving her bonkers at this point, and it seemed like Teresa was never going to call. It was well past lights out, and yet all of her patients were awake, thanks to Mickey, and were becoming a bit rowdy themselves. 

Finally, as if Erika had willed it to happen, her cell phone rang. “Teresa!” she answered, just as soon as she had made her way out of Mickey’s room, much to his displeasure. She could hear him hollering for Ian again, but continued to walk away, until she reached the office, running in and closing the door. 

“What the hell is going on? Why haven’t you called?!” Erika wailed, suddenly overcome with emotion. Mickey’s lovesick cries for Ian had really affected her, sensitizing her to Teresa’s situation as well. She knew Teresa was falling hard for T. They had discussed it the night he had told her about the audio recording. The look of fear on her whole face that night, as she recounted the story, said it all. 

“T is having emergency surgery! There’s extensive internal damage He’s been in there for hours!” Teresa sobbed. “Teresa...I wish I could...be there for you,” Erika offered comfortingly, wanting to ask about Ian, but trying her best not to seem insensitive. She understood the pain Teresa was feeling. She’d been through something similar herself, and truthfully, all of this was bringing back some terrible memories. 

Both women were silent for a moment, then Teresa spoke again, “They did surgery on Ian’s leg, to set the tibia and fibula and to close the wound. Nose was also broken. Luckily, no internal injuries, other than bruising. He’s awake, but he’s a little woozy from the pain meds. I’ve been with him for the past hour or so. He wanted to talk to Mickey, but I told him he had to be sedated.”

“Actually,” Erika interjected, “I maxed out his dose, and he still won’t shut up! Keeps yammering for Ian. He’s got every inmate in the infirmary awake. AND he’s shooting his mouth off about stuff he shouldn’t be!” 

“Well,” Teresa began, breathing deeply, “I imagine they’ll be transporting Ian back to you soon. Maybe set up a second bed in the room, if ya can squeeze it in. Sounds like that’s the only way anyone’s gonna get any peace.”

“Okay, any chance Mickey can talk to Ian?” Erika asked hopefully, as Mickey continued to yell for Ian in the background. “Hear that?” she asked. “Yes,” Teresa answered. “Well, I’m in the office with the door closed, so…” Erika drifted off, opening the door so Teresa could get a better idea of how fucking loud Mickey actually was. 

“I’m headed back to his room now,” Teresa responded, then adding, “Actually, they’re taking him to the transport now. Just go tell Mickey he’ll be there soon. I gotta go. There’s a nurse here, trying to get my attention.” Teresa hung up abruptly, leaving Erika to feel as if she hadn’t been supportive enough of her, given the fact that T was literally fighting for his life, and Teresa knew it. 

It wasn’t that Erika didn’t care, or didn’t want to comfort Teresa. It was that Mickey’s incessant wailing was so damned difficult to endure, she was at the end of her rope. It had brought her to tears more than once, her complete inability to do anything to lessen his pain, causing her to feel completely inadequate as a medical professional, and as a person.

“I’m coming, Mickey! Please stop!” Erika almost begged as she approached the door to his room with a second bed. “Tyrone, you can go. We’ll be okay in here now,” she said, encouraging Tyrone to return to his post. “Can you keep an eye on the others? I’m hoping I can get him quieted down so they can all finally sleep,” she finished, giving him a confident look as she wheeled the bed into the room. “Okay,” he answered doubtfully, turning on his heel and heading for the open ward. 

“Mickey!” Erika said softly, a big smile spreading over her face as she delivered the news, “This is Ian’s bed. He’s on his way back here. He’s gonna be okay.” “How soon’s he gonna be here?” Mickey demanded impatiently, though she could see his face softening, from the moment he heard what she said. “Soon!” she exclaimed, pushing the bed into the corner and proceeding to loosen Mickey’s restraints. “Hey,” Mickey whispered with a smile, “How ‘bout if we push the beds together?” 

Erika glared at him disapprovingly, explaining, “He’s not gonna be feelin’ too great.” “I’m not either,” he grinned, rolling his eyes. “Besides, I gotta tell him I’m sorry---gotta show him.” Erika stared at him in disbelief. “C’mon, I ain’t got that long left anyway. Just let me be with him. I ...I fuckin’ love him,” Mickey breathed.

“I’ll help ya,” he offered, pulling himself completely out of the loosened restraints and popping up out of the bed. “Mickey, you shouldn’t be…” “I’m fine,” he insisted, pulling at the head of his bed to move it closer to the other one. “You know what?” Erika laughed as she reached for the other end of the bed, against her own better judgment. 

“What?” Mickey responded, smirking, upon realizing that he was actually going to be sleeping with Ian, at least for that night. “Ian’s lucky!” she mused, smiling back at Mickey. “Naw, man...I’m the luckiest guy alive!” he countered, his beautiful, blue eyes sparkling as he envisioned Ian lying next to him, “The luckiest man that ever lived.”


	15. Bedside Manner

Teresa approached T’s bed in the CCU nervously, working hard to fight back the inevitable tears that eventually came, upon her catching sight of T’s pale, uncharacteristically fragile-looking face. Although she’d seen many people in this situation throughout her nursing career, the only personal experience Teresa had was with Max, an ordeal that had ended catastrophically, scarring her for life, so it was no wonder she was such a total mess. He was still only semi-conscious, his eyes blinking open intermittently, then falling shut again before she could even get a good look at them. 

“T...it’s Teresa,” she whispered softly as she sat down in the chair next to the bed, taking his hand in hers, anxiously awaiting even the tiniest acknowledgement of her presence. After what seemed like forever, Teresa felt T’s grip tighten on her hand. “T!” she exclaimed, “I know you can hear me! You scared the shit outta me!”

T squeezed her hand a bit more tightly, opened his eyes slowly, then attempted to speak, despite having an extreme case of cottonmouth and some post-op disorientation. Teresa saw him forming words, but no sound came out. “It’s okay. Don’t try to talk. I’m just grateful as hell to see those gorgeous blue eyes of yours,” Teresa said with a heartfelt smile, her voice cracking with emotion, despite her efforts to stay strong. 

Teresa had always found T attractive, but in the last few weeks, she had come to absolutely adore him, body and soul. Though she had witnessed his kindness toward inmates in the past, his recent decision to risk his own safety in order to put an end to rape and other acts of sexual violence and abuse against helpless prisoners really struck a chord with her. After all, Max had died trying to accomplish the very same goal, one that she certainly held in common with them both. 

In fact, before Teresa knew T had been attacked, she had envisioned the blossoming of their relationship from dry-humping in the infirmary into something real. Their chemistry was undeniable, but she wanted so much more than just to get laid. 

She knew she had gone out on a limb by even accepting his invitation for coffee, given the depth of her feelings for him already. After all, plenty of men would assume that coffee and an invitation to a woman’s apartment meant a cursory hour of small talk, followed by some hot sex and a fake phone number afterward. Somehow, however, her intuition told her that there was more between them than that. 

And so Teresa remained by T’s side, silently holding his hand until the wee hours of the morning, as he slipped in and out of consciousness, occasionally acknowledging her presence with a soft look. Finally, she prepared to leave, standing, then leaning forward to kiss him on the forehead. “I have to go,” she whispered, adding, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” 

“Wait!” T called out hoarsely, as she turned to leave, prompting her to spin about and look back at him, a hint of desperation in his voice as he continued, “Don’t...let just anyone...guard Milkovich. And...and keep Ian in the room for his shifts...Promise me…”

Teresa didn’t have the heart to share with T that Ian had been brutally attacked at pretty much the same time he had. “I promise…” she replied with a nod, then made her escape, just before coming completely apart at the seams, sobbing as the image of Ian’s battered face and broken leg registered in her brain again, as if she’d just seen it for the first time. “See you soon,” she managed to say softly as she exited the room, bound for the elevator.

Once she arrived at her car, Teresa called Erika, who picked up on the half-ring, seeing who it was. “Is he okay?” she asked immediately upon answering. “He’s alive…” Teresa responded, “But he didn’t say much...except not to let just anyone guard Mickey...And he said to keep Ian in Mickey’s room.” “Really? You spend most of the night with the guy, and all he says to you is to protect THEM? Wow…” Erika responded in utter disbelief. 

“Yes, Erika! This is serious! You saw what they did to T!” Teresa admonished, “He’s afraid they’re gonna go after THEM next!” “Yeah, I get it! I’ll talk to Tyrone about getting someone trustworthy. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I was just hoping T might have said...I don’t know...something...to YOU,” Erika explained, waxing romantic after witnessing Mickey’s lovesick behavior all evening. 

_____________________________

Mickey was up out of bed, pacing the floor in his room, becoming more concerned and agitated with every minute that passed. “Tyrone! You see ‘em?” Mickey must have yelled out into the hallway at least ten times in the hour that had passed since Erika had told him Ian would be there ‘soon’. “Milkovich! I told ya, you be da first ta know when he get here!” Tyrone answered Mickey’s most recent question, then called to Erika, “Ain’t it time for his pills?” 

“Not for another three hours,” she answered with an exasperated sigh, heading for Mickey’s room for what was probably the fifth time since she’d left to give the others their bedtime meds and try to get caught up with all that had happened during the day shift, being that she had not taken report from Teresa, under the circumstances. 

One thing she had noticed about the patient list from the day before was that someone had highlighted one of the patient numbers in yellow. She had meant to ask Teresa about it, but with all the chaos, it had been the last thing on her mind. “I’ll ask first thing in the morning, as soon as Teresa gets here,” she told herself as she walked into Mickey’s room, addressing him, “Mickey, I’ve asked you nicely to stay quiet. The other patients are all sleeping, which is important, so they can heal. You should try to rest, too.”

“No way! No fuckin’ way I’m sleepin’ without Ian here!” he objected defiantly. Just then, Tyrone stepped into the room to announce Ian’s arrival. “Milkovich, your man’s here. Now shut da fuck up an’ be patient,” he chided. Mickey’s face lit up like a fucking Christmas Tree. He hopped up into his bed anxiously, at first, then jumped back down, flitting about the room, his excitement boiling over and absolutely infectious. Even Erika had to admit to herself that she could not wait to see the look on Mickey’s face when he finally laid eyes on Ian. She had butterflies in HER stomach, just thinking about it.

As the door to his room opened, yet again, a short C.O. pushed Ian in, in a wheelchair. Mickey’s eyes widened at the sight of Ian, a combination of simultaneous shock and relief registering on his face. Erika grinned, letting out a giddy chuckle as Mickey literally rushed Ian’s wheelchair, the electric excitement emanating from him instantly brightening her mood. 

“Okay, we got it from here,” Mickey snapped, waving the C.O. off dismissively. “Excuse me, inmate?!” the insulted C.O. snarled, approaching Mickey with his baton raised. “Please...he’s not well,” Ian mumbled through his swollen lips. Erika nodded in affirmation, the wind instantly taken out of her sails by the demeaning and inhumane reaction this asshole had to what was merely Mickey trying to take responsibility for the safety and care of his man. Fortunately for all concerned, Tyrone was able to distract the C.O. with small talk as he led him out of the room, citing to an earlier incident involving another inmate. 

“Okay, Ian, let’s see if we can’t get you comfortable in this bed,” Erika suggested kindly, wheeling the chair as close as possible to the bed, then locking the wheels. “I got it,” Mickey insisted, helping Ian to stand on one leg. “Put your arms around my neck,” he instructed, Ian following his cue. Mickey then got him turned around and helped him to sit on the bed. Erika watched in amazement as Mickey did HER job, and did it well. He lifted Ian’s legs up onto the bed gingerly, propping the inured one with some extra pillows, then asked, “How’s that?” To which Ian replied in little more than a whisper, “It’s fine, Mick...Sorry....”

“You’re sorry?! For fuckin’ what?! I’m the one who showed up here and got ya involved in all my shit. It’s my fuckin’ fault you’re all busted up, right? I’m the one who should be apologizin’! And I AM sorry...so fuckin’ sorry, Ian,” Mickey countered tearfully, as he got a better look at just how completely busted up Ian’s face was. 

Both eyes were completely black underneath and so swollen, above and below, that his eyeballs were barely visible. His nose was bandaged, and his lips were crusted over with dried blood, but were so puffy, they appeared as if any or all of the splits could pop open if he moved his lips too much. 

“No...I’m the one who talked to Deems in the library...He’s the one who told the cartel...” Ian tried to explain. “Told ‘em what?” Mickey asked. “About your deal, and about me being your...your...bitch,” he shared reluctantly, wincing in pain with each word he spoke. 

“FIrst of all, we both know you ain’t my bitch. You’re my fuckin’ fiance!” Mickey corrected Ian. “And second, they already fuckin’ knew all that shit anyway. They just used him ta get ya alone...ta send me a fuckin’ message. That’s all. It’s still my fuckin’ fault. All this shit!” Mickey argued, blaming himself, as he slid his body cautiously into the bed next to Ian. 

“Now,” Mickey continued, taking Ian’s hand gently into his own, “When you’re feelin’ better, we’ll figure all this shit out. But for now, we got good protection and you’re gonna get some sleep, just as soon as ya forgive me.” Ian tried to smile, but the pain and swelling in his face wouldn’t allow it. “Nothing to forgive, Mick. Just glad you’re okay. Gonna get...ya outta here ...and get ya...that surgery...and then... it’s you and me...for...ever,” Ian breathed in truncated phrases, before drifting off to sleep, his hand still interlaced with Mickey’s. 

“I love you, Ian, and I fuckin’ missed ya,” Mickey breathed, pressing his lips against the back of Ian’s hand as he held it, “Thank the fuck Christ you’re back and you’re alright.”


	16. Keep Your Friends Close...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello All! Planning to publish a second chapter over the weekend! Happy Reading:)

The entire prison was still in lockdown when Teresa arrived for her shift, just before 7 AM. She’d had time for little more than a quick nap and shower, before having to head in to work, so she was in no mood for all of the hassles associated with trying to gain access to the infirmary in a lockdown situation. Nonetheless, this was precisely what she was faced with. 

It was Beau who finally escorted her up to the infirmary on his way to relieve Tyrone. “So Beau, what’s the status of the investigation?” Teresa inquired in an official tone. “Don’t know a whole lot yet. Just that any inmate who was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time is now being held for questioning, and that everyone else is locked up in their cells,” he reported. “Anyone we know?” Teresa pried further, raising a curious eyebrow. “Lotta AB,” Beau replied candidly, “And some cartel associates.” 

“Not surprising,” Teresa huffed with an irritated eye roll, just as the elevator door opened, Erika greeting her with an exhausted half-smile. “Everyone here is sleeping comfortably,” she reported, pulling Teresa by the arm into the office impatiently. “Okay, I gotta ask...Why is this inmate number highlighted? I meant to ask yesterday, but with all the…”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Teresa interrupted, looking at Erika like she had two heads. “Right here,” Erika responded, pointing at the yellowed number on the clipboard. “Well, I don’t know anything about it,” Teresa shrugged, “Did ya ask Ian?” 

“Hell no! He fell asleep mid-sentence, talking to Mickey, and has been out cold ever since. No way I’d interrupt that. He’ll be awake soon though, when his pain meds wear off. And he’s gonna be demanding the good stuff! Has an order for oxy, so…” Erika explained, getting up from her chair to shut the office door all the way. 

“Listen,” she continued, “This guy,” she whispered, pointing to the highlighted number again, “has MS-13 tattooed on his arm, along with a bunch of other murderous cartel-looking shit! I checked into it. Records say we had him up here a few weeks ago…Funny, I don’t rememb...”

“Oh fuck!” Teresa interjected a bit too loudly for Erika’s liking. “Shhhh…Don’t wanna wake anyone just yet,” she warned. “Ya don’t remember this guy’s tats cuz he’s not the same guy! It’s his fuckin’ brother! Look!” Teresa called out, directing Erika’s attention to the online inmate photos. “What the fuck?!” Erika hissed incredulously. 

“Sent to finish the job,” Teresa now realized out loud, a lump forming in her throat as she continued, “Someone damn well pulled some strings to get his brother up here last week under his name. Reported that he was the one who tried to shank Mickey in the chow line, but I’m betting this is our guy.” 

Teresa paused, swallowing hard and doing her best to calm herself before continuing, “And now that he knows Ian and Mickey are both alive and staying up here, thanks to all of the commotion over the past 24 hours, something’s gotta be done. Gonna need more security up here.”

“And you’re telling me you think Ian highlighted this guy’s name?” Erika asked, completely baffled. “Teresa,” Beau called through the door, “They’re up, and Mickey’s threatening to come out and get you, if you don’t bring Ian his meds. I’d hate to have to strike him, in his condition, but my orders are to take him down, if he tries to leave the room.”

“And so what is stopping him right now?” she scolded, opening the door to confront him face-to-face. “You call this ‘security’?” she spat sarcastically, pushing past him, striding toward the medication cart with an attitude. “Get your ass back over to their door, before I call the warden!” she snapped, Erika trailing after her, doing her best to talk her down. “Teresa! What was he supposed to do? We were behind closed doors. C’mon, you gotta cool your jets. We don’t need Central Office nosing around here!”

Erika followed Teresa into the private room, continuing to try and reason with her, Teresa muttering under her breath as she prepared to administer Ian’s meds. “Teresa! Beau’s about the best we can hope for here! Best you stop insulting and threatening him! Who knows who his replacement would be?!” Erika cautioned, after closing the door behind them.

“Just let me give him his meds, then we’ll talk more,” Teresa shot back, just before giving Ian a subcutaneous shot of oxy. Mickey nodded in silent thanks, noting Teresa’s mood and not wanting to fuck with her in any way, as he sat next to Ian, holding his hand.

Teresa took a deep breath before walking out the door and addressing Beau. “Look,” she said in little more than a whisper, “I don’t mean to be nasty. It’s just there is more here than meets the eye, and security needs to be tight. I’ll be requesting an extra C.O. today. You can’t be expected to handle everything up here.” Teresa paused, gauging his reaction, then continued, “Do you have anyone in mind that I should try to get? Someone trustworthy, like yourself?” 

Erika smiled over at Teresa, pleased to see that she had acknowledged Beau as a good C.O. After all, there weren’t that many of them. The last thing Erika wanted was for Beau to get pissed off and not take his guard duty seriously. “Chapman,” Beau rattled off, without hesitation. Teresa, in all her years at Statevillle had never heard of a C.O. named Chapman. She glanced over at Erika, who had suddenly turned bright red and averted her eyes. 

“I take it you know this “Chapman,” Teresa surmised, looking to Erika for confirmation. “You could say that,” she responded, clearly embarrassed and not wanting to answer any further questions in Beau’s presence. “Ok, then,” Teresa said with the first smile she’d cracked since her arrival, “Chapman, it is. I’ll take care of it. Go ahead home to your kids.”

“Thanks, Teresa. I’m gonna say goodbye to those two first,” Erika replied, turning to reenter Mickey and Ian’s room. “Hey, you two,” Erika began as she peeked in, “I have to get home to my kids, but wanted you to know how glad I am that you’re together here. I know you’ll take good care of each other until I get back. “Sure will,” Ian said, attempting a smile, the effects of his oxy just beginning to kick in. Mickey agreed, resting a hand on Ian’s chest as he lay next to him, “Yep, see ya tonight.”

It wasn’t long after Erika had gone that Teresa knocked, then entered, finding both men fast asleep, Mickey’s head on Ian’s chest. She had really wanted to confirm her suspicions concerning the MS-13 member on her ward, but didn’t have the heart to wake Ian, after all he’d been through. Just looking at his mangled face caused her such pain that she had to force herself to think differently, in order to remain in the room. “I’m treating a patient,” she said, inside her own head. “But he’s also a colleague,” she shot back at herself, tearing up as she thought of Ian’s medical expertise and willingness to help, even someone whom, Ian believed, had tried to harm Mickey. She wondered if Ian had discovered the discrepancy---two patients, same number. Of one thing Teresa was certain; this guy was there to get to Mickey. 

She had taken some time to look over the guy’s chart, confirming that a prisoner under the same number had been treated for a stab wound, following the cartel’s attempt on Mickey’s life in the chow hall. It also showed the details of his most recent admission, which involved an allergic reaction to something, which was taking some time to resolve itself. 

Teresa thought there was a good chance that this current admission could have been the result of an intentional act, designed to get him into the infirmary, especially now that she knew he was not the same man whom they had treated for the stabbing. She had learned that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, after looking for the healing wound, under the guise of doing a rash check. She found some old scars, but nothing matching the recent abdominal stab wound they had treated less than two weeks ago.

With her hunch confirmed, Teresa was on a mission to get Mickey and Ian the protection they needed. She only hoped this C.O., Chapman, was as trustworthy as Beau and Erika believed. She hated the fact that T had been so badly injured and couldn’t be there. She couldn’t even think about it without tearing up. 

_______________________________

“I know your guys are behind this shit!” Warden Petrov barked, completely at his wits end. He had been questioning members of the AB for nearly twelve hours without anything more to go on than when he had started. He knew a group of them had been signed into the prison yard, purportedly for a group yoga workout, but couldn’t get an explanation as to how any of them could have gotten down to the lower level to shank T. He knew a staff member had to have been complicit, but he didn’t have a shred of proof. 

Adolf smirked at Petrov defiantly, then shrugged his shoulders, his hands cuffed behind his back, snorting, “What can I tell you?” Adolf had been at Stateville for twenty years already, and was serving a life sentence for his role in the public lynching of a college basketball player, making him one of the most senior inmates there, his tenure most definitely exceeding that of any prison employee. He was well-connected with some of the most dangerous lifers on the rolls there, and had finessed his way into the good graces of many an unwitting C.O. over the years, only to turn on every one of them, coercing them into amoral, criminal behavior under the threat of extreme violence or death. The AB had grown so much in number, since his arrival, that they were quite a formidable force, one that not many dared to fuck with. 

T’s current situation was certainly a testament to that. There had also been one row in recent history between the AB and the Muslims, wherein two Muslims were killed, their bodies desecrated, the rest being transferred, wholesale, to another prison for their own protection. 

“Well, until someone tells me something, you and all your guys are going to Solitary!” Petrov fumed. He knew damn well that they would all seek legal representation and try to bring a discrimination suit against the prison. He only hoped he could gather enough intel in the interim to justify his actions. He simply couldn’t afford to leave them in gen pop to possibly inflict the same fate upon another employee as they had on T. 

“Move them down, one at a time,” Petrov instructed Chapman and two other C.O.’s, all three armed with pistols, in addition to their standard-issue batons. “And Chapman, I need you back here when you’re done,” Petrov added, “Got a special assignment for ya.” 

Once all of the AB inmates had been removed from his office, Petrov picked up his phone, dialing the kitchen extension. “Where’s Ivan?” he demanded, “I need to see him in my office---NOW! Tell him it’s extremely urgent!”


	17. Ride Or Die

Mickey watched Ian as he slept peacefully, the pain meds having done a real number on him. His heart ached for Ian, for all he’d endured, thanks to HIS stupidity. How could he ever have thought Ian would be safer with him, under these circumstances, than without him? He now realized how selfish he’d been in his decision to be locked up with Ian. But as he gazed down at the bruised, yet somehow still beautiful face of his love, he couldn’t help but recognize the wholeness he felt, a rush of warmth and contentment that, in all his life, he’d only experienced when he had Ian by his side, to call his. “Fuck, I love him!” Mickey thought to himself, the conflicting messages in his mind eating at him unrelentingly.

It was at that moment that Ian’s eyes opened, the swelling having decreased just enough that Mickey could recognize a slight glint in them as he looked up at him. “Love you, Mick,” Ian breathed, batting his eyelashes in a way that fucked with Mickey on a primal level, despite Ian’s frail, broken condition. He could feel himself getting hard, but was trying desperately to control it. “This ain’t the time or the place,” he chided himself silently, all the while unconsciously closing the distance between his cock and Ian’s left hip.

Ian smiled faintly as Mickey’s growing erection grazed the side of his pelvis, the sensation giving a tingling rise to his own cock. “Sorry, man,” Mickey whispered in embarrassment as he forced his body away from Ian’s, “Did I hurt ya?”

“Hell, no!” came Ian’s immediate reply, “It felt fucking fantastic...want you…” Ian’s voice trailed off as he reached up under Mickey’s hospital gown, sliding his hand slowly over Mickey’s rapidly stiffening manhood. “Ian,” Mickey breathed into Ian’s ear, nibbling at it, flicking his tongue around it, inside it, then tracing the contour of Ian’s neck with it teasingly. 

Ian shuddered as goosebumps rose all over his body, his massive cock now fully aroused and desperately craving the inside of Mickey’s tight little ass. He thought momentarily about the possibility of this being their last opportunity, the reality of Mickey’s medical condition and his current situation with the cartel looming large in Ian’s mind. All of these problems, he fully believed, were the result of Mickey’s self-sacrificing willingness to do anything in order to be with him. Fuck! He had to be the luckiest, yet unluckiest man ever. 

“Mick…” Ian mumbled longingly, his head literally swimming in ‘feel good’, the combination of his pain medication and his body’s intense reaction to Mickey’s erotic attentions combining to set his entire being on fire. “Ride me,” he commanded in little more than a whisper, his pleading eyes stirring Mickey’s body to immediate action.

Mickey didn’t waste any time, maneuvering himself carefully into position, then gently rolling his hips so their cocks rubbed against one another at a torturously slow pace, Ian countering Mickey avidly, his split and swollen lips parted just enough for the sweet sounds of his desire to escape, spurring Mickey on, in spite of his concerns for possibly aggravating Ian’s injuries.

Mickey continued to take his time, sensing Ian’s torment, yet determined not to cause him any further harm. He reached for the lube, while maintaining his frustratingly languid rhythm. “Mickey...fuck!” Ian cried out in utter desperation. “Yeah...we’re gonna…” Mickey purred, lowering his face to suck at Ian’s tender neck some more, as he moved his lubed finger slowly into his own taut hole, then two, all while Ian forced himself to lie as still as possible, although his ever-escalating need for Mickey was reaching epic proportions by now. 

Finally, after adequate preparation, Mickey began sinking onto Ian’s slicked up monster of a cock, hissing through his teeth as he inched himself further down onto it. “Ian...” he cried out, the glorious feeling of fullness overloading his body with sensation as Ian bottomed out. “Oh, fuck!” Mickey sang ecstatically, over and over again, as ripples of pleasure reverberated through his entire body. 

“Yes...yes...yes!” Ian contributed to the symphony of moans, sighs and yelps that now filled the room. “You feel so...fucking...incredible! Fucking...unreal!” Ian continued, praising Mickey’s talents unabashedly as he fought against his own enraptured body to hold his head and leg still.

A knock at the door, followed by Teresa’s voice, brought everything to an abrupt halt. “Guys...I have your breakfast...and Mr. Ball is here,” she announced. 

“Fuck!” Mickey mouthed silently, moving quickly to dismount Ian and cover them both adequately with blankets. “Just a minute!” Ian blurted out hoarsely, trying to buy them some time, his cock and balls throbbing as he adjusted himself to the best of his ability, in an attempt to hide his waning bulge. Mickey moved partially onto the, up until now, vacant bed, dragging his half of the sheet and blanket over himself begrudgingly, yet remaining close enough to Ian to feel the heat from his body on his own.

Teresa pulled a meal table over, depositing two trays on it, one in front of each of them. “Thanks,” Mickey responded with a fake smile, which quickly morphed into a contemptuous scowl as he watched Ball strut in, hoisting his briefcase up onto a second meal table near the bathroom, then sitting in the adjacent chair.

“Mr. Milkovich” he began in a clipped, condescending tone that pissed Ian off instantly, “The trial is set to start in two days, so we need to go over the testimony you gave in your deposition. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, he fucking understands,” Ian snapped at him, before Mickey could answer for himself. Ball ignored Ian’s obvious ire, opening his briefcase and removing a laptop, immediately beginning to scroll through what must have been Mickey’s deposition. There was an awkward silence, during which Mickey, reading Ian’s mood, chose to reach over and stroke Ian’s thigh in an effort to calm him. 

Ian looked over at Mickey, then shut his eyes, squeezing them closed more tightly as he felt Mickey begin to caress him under the meal table, which was conveniently in a position to offer the perfect cover for his naughty fondling. 

“In your first statement you admit to your involvement in trafficking drugs for the cartel, and you include a number of locations to which you traveled, including, most recently, Chicago,” Ball summarized as he continued to page through the electronic version of Mickey’s testimony. 

“Mmmm Hmmm,” Mickey mumbled, a hint of sexiness to the timber of his voice, as he continued to excite Ian with the light, sensual glide of his fingertips over Ian’s upper, then inner left thigh. Ball proceeded to describe what amounted to Mickey’s confession in great detail, pausing periodically to confirm Mickey’s understanding, to which Mickey consistently responded with a husky, barely audible “Mmmm Hmmmm”, that was, by design, in combination with his teasing touch, getting Ian hard as fuck.

Ian shot Mickey a disapproving look, though his anger was but a thin veil for the mercurial passion that was rising up inside him. “Mickey!” he finally shouted, causing Mickey to stop what he’d been doing, “Are you just gonna let this guy rattle on about all of your self-incrimination without bringing up what’s gonna happen as soon as you testify, if you live long enough to even do that?” 

“Mr. Gallagher, as we’ve discussed, I have taken steps toward securing Mr. Milkovich’s expedited Compassionate Release, but only if he testifies against Sanchez and Burman,” Ball explained, again with an air of superiority that really ruffled Ian’s feathers. “As for your testimony, we can discuss options for you at a later date, once we get through this trial.”

Mickey had resumed massaging Ian, moving on to his now fully-aroused package, which distracted Ian sufficiently to shut him up for the moment, thus allowing Ball to continue his scrolling and encapsulating, to which Mickey perpetuated his humming assent. 

Once Ball had reviewed all of the necessary information with Mickey, he was preparing to leave, when Teresa knocked, then entered, requesting a word with him. Ball gathered his things, uttering a hasty farewell, then trudging out the door in search of Teresa.

“You motherfucker!” Ian snarled at Mickey, “You’re damn lucky I’m so fucked up right now, or I’d have your ass pinned to the fucking bed already! And if I wasn’t so fucking horny right now, I’d tell ya what I think about how you handled yourself with that asshole!” Ian muttered discontentedly. 

“Now go lock that fucking door!” he demanded, Mickey obliging him immediately, then returning with a silly smirk on his face, Ian cracking an adoring smile in spite of himself. “Get over here and finish what you started!” Ian whined as though he were in physical pain, for want of Mickey’s mischievous ass.

Mickey’s thick, rigid cock bounced up and down under his gown as he reacclimated himself to the position necessary in order for him to fuck Ian in his current condition, his own anticipation mounting to the point of agony. He simply couldn’t get Ian into him fast enough. “Gimme that cock,” Ian growled lustfully, slicking Mickey’s dick up while Mickey did the same to his. Mickey breathed harshly through his nose, his eyes rolling up into his head as he continued to stroke Ian slowly, then working to guide his cock into him, Ian arching his hips upward impatiently. “Stay still,” Mickey hissed, lowering himself gingerly onto Ian’s gigantic tool. “Can’t be fuckin’ that leg up,” he warned as he finessed his way further and further down onto Ian, the intense friction and fullness pushing a series of high-pitched squawks involuntarily from his throat. 

As he settled into it, he began rocking himself forward and back, Ian’s ample rod rubbing against his prostate with such precision, Mickey had to slow down, in order to last for his mate. “Mickey! Oh my GOD!!” Ian moaned as he continued to slide his fist over Mickey’s magic stick, his own pleasure slamming him hard, like waves crashing against the rocks in a violent storm. 

“I’m gonna…gonna...gonna...” Ian chanted, pausing mid-sentence, forcing his eyes open to look at Mickey in their final moment, dancing on his dick, his eyes closed tightly, his beautiful, black lashes fluttering against the milky skin below them, as rapturous tears flowed from beneath, Mickey’s mouth agape as he whimpered, “Ian...Ian...Ian…” Ian could sense Mickey’s impending orgasm, his balls tightening, his ass quivering with each rebound, his dick throbbing under Ian’s skillful touch.

That was all she wrote! Ian erupted up into Mickey’s clenching, twerking, pulsating ass with so much force, his head felt like it might explode, Mickey following suit immediately thereafter. “Mickey...” he panted, his body completely spent, his mind abuzz with an odd combination of carnal bliss and exorbitant concern, from the moment a semblance of clarity returned to him. 

Mickey collapsed beside him, sated and exhausted, his blue eyes sparkling, bright as stars, as he gazed over at his magnificent lover. “Damn, Gallagher! Unbelievable!” he huffed breathlessly. “No...that was YOU!” Ian insisted, doing his best to pucker his lips, which earned him a light brush of Mickey’s mouth over his own. “Was afraid to do that,” Mickey explained, “Looked like it’d hurt!” 

“You could never hurt me,” Ian countered. “Anything from you feels good! It’s me that should be worried about hurting you.” Ian had been thinking about that, ever since he felt the intense pressure in his own head, just before his climax. He wondered if that could cause Mickey’s aneurysm to burst, a possibility that frightened him beyond measure. “How the fuck you gonna hurt me...I mean besides with that fuckin’ ginormous dick of yours...but I can handle that!” he chuckled. “Yeah…” Ian smiled, as best he could, rolling his eyes at Mickey’s self-flattering comment. 

“Fuck! I love you,” Ian sighed, under his breath, adding, “Let me look at you some more.” Mickey leaned up onto his elbow, hovering his face over Ian’s with a child-like grin that melted Ian instantaneously. Ian reached up, wrapping both arms around Mickey affectionately and pulling his top half down onto him, tucking Mickey’s head under his black-and-blue chin. “I just need you close to me, Mick,” he sighed, his eyes filling with tears that Mickey was now conveniently unable to see. 

As Ian breathed in the heavenly essence of Mickey, his worrisome preoccupations left him, at least temporarily, allowing him to relax and enjoy the fantasy world he and Mickey had created together, where nothing mattered, except for them and their love for each other. 

“Ya need ta eat somethin’,” Mickey said softly, breaking the easy silence, after a few minutes of basking in the afterglow of their magnificent lovemaking. “Later,” Ian yawned, pulling Mickey ever closer, then slipping into a pleasant post-coital nap soon after.

__________________

“Mr. Ball,” Teresa asserted with an attitude, resting her hand on her hip authoritatively. “Are you aware of the recent events at this prison?!” “Of course,” He answered gruffly, clearly insulted by Teresa’s question. “Well, then, what do you intend to do to protect these men? Ian is very lucky to be alive, after this last incident, and their lives continue to be threatened!” she continued, flashing the note that the cartel had left for Mickey, inside Ian’s jumpsuit. 

“Informants are always at risk. You know that,” Ball reminded Teresa. “But the threat is imminent!” Teresa argued indignantly, “For both of them. Come here,” she urged, motioning for him to step into the office, “I want you to see something.” Once he entered, she shut the door, then seated herself at the computer, pulling up the files of both of the brothers that had been treated in the infirmary over the past two weeks, under the same number. “Now...what do you think about that?” she hissed nastily, awaiting a reply with a scowl on her face. 

“Well...I…” Ball stammered, at a complete loss as to how to respond. “And while you’re thinking about that, can you also give some thought as to how you intend to keep Adolf and the AB from killing anyone and everyone you list as a witness in the Burman trial, including Ian and Mickey? Because this shit is real. It doesn’t cease to exist when you leave the prison and return to your safe, comfortable environment. We are still here! And we are still at risk!” Teresa fumed, unwilling to let this go, as she had so many times before. 

Something inside her snapped the night Ian and T were so badly injured, and she didn’t care who she offended or who might report her---not any more. If she couldn’t save the innocent victims in all of this, then what good was she as a prison nurse? She figured, if she got fired, she’d just find another shitty, thankless, low-paying job, just like this one. And hopefully, she wouldn’t be required to look the other way while horrific things happened to good people. To her, that wasn’t part of being a nurse, and she couldn’t bring herself to do it anymore.

____________________________

“So Ivan, you know what I expect then?” Warden Petrov asked, although he knew he had been abundantly clear. Ivan nodded silently, his skin paler than usual, his eyes completely devoid of expression. “Alright then, tell no one...I’ll be in touch,” Petrov mumbled as he shook Ivan’s hand firmly. 

“Okay, Chapman, he’s ready to go.” Petrov called out, loud enough to be heard in the outside office, where Chapman had been waiting. Chapman entered the room, motioning for Ivan to follow him. “ When you leave him, head straight to the infirmary. You will be assigned there until further notice,” Petrov barked authoritatively. Chapman acknowledged his instructions non-verbally, then turned to address Ivan, “Let’s go.”


	18. Miasma

Teresa was on fumes by the time she pulled into the lot at Good Samaritan. She’d had a ridiculously long, stress-filled day, and had nearly fallen asleep at the wheel. Yet she had pressed on, unable to rid her mind of the frightful image of T lying in the CCU, looking pale, weak---half-dead. She had to see him. Make sure he was okay. Assure him that things were being taken care of at the prison in his absence. She knew him well enough to know he worried about such things, in general, and that the recent circumstances would only serve to magnify his concern.

Upon arrival at the CCU, she found that his bed was empty. She rushed anxiously to the nurse’s station, only to be told that his nurse was not available, and that she would need to wait for him in order to get any details. Teresa was absolutely beside herself, a long list of worst-case scenarios, which her extensive medical experience had enabled her to conjure, plaguing her mind as she paced nervously from one end of the station to the other.

After the better part of an hour, T’s nurse, Michael, returned to the unit, only to apologetically inform her that he didn’t have permission to share T’s medical information with her. Devastated, Teresa did the only thing she could do; investigate on her own.

Over the years, she had cultivated relationships with nurses and doctors on staff there in various departments, among them, Emergency and Surgical. Within minutes, she was able to gain access to his Admission Summary from the ER, his initial Surgical Report, and most importantly, his current location, OR #2, where he was undergoing surgery for a newly discovered perforation of his colon, presumably the result of some type of forced anal penetration.

“Motherfuckers!” Teresa muttered under her breath, at first becoming nearly as angry with her colleagues in the ER as she was the perpetrators of the assault itself, then realizing that the ER staff likely overlooked this remote possibility in their efforts to save his life, given the extensive stab wounds to his torso.

All at once, her powerlessness over the entire scenario hit her like a ton of bricks, forcing her to sit down in the waiting area until she could control herself. She sobbed quietly into her own hands, praying for answers to the questions that tormented her. How the fuck could this happen to a C.O. in a maximum security prison? How serious was the perforation? Would T be forced to wear a colostomy bag for the rest of his life?

Unfortunately, all she could do was wait. As more and more time passed with no answers, she reluctantly called Erika and the prison, informing them of her impending absence, then curled up on a small loveseat, awaiting T’s return to the CCU or at least an unofficial update on his condition, whichever came first.

____________________

Dr. Byrnes, with minimal help from the agency nurse who was in for Teresa, made his rounds quickly, signing off on as many discharges as possible, in order to make room for members of the AB, who had fallen suddenly ill, just after being moved into Solitary. They seemed to have all simultaneously contracted an intestinal virus that was so severe, they had become dangerously dehydrated in less than 24 hours. He had visited them prior to his arrival in the infirmary, at the behest of a C.O. on duty, concluding that they all needed IVs ASAP.

Among those being discharged was none over than the mysterious highlighted prisoner, Raul Ramirez, who was still on prescription-strength steroids for his allergic reaction, but had otherwise been given a clean bill of health. He was to be escorted all the way back to his cell, where he would be locked in for the remainder of the day, pending Warden Petrov’s decision as to what to do with him next.

Petrov had begun an investigation into Ian’s beating the day before, and had now expanded the scope of his inquiries regarding cartel affiliates to the earlier incident in the chow hall involving Mickey, and the subsequent admission of two different prisoners to the infirmary under the same inmate number.

The additional investigation of cartel activity inside the prison came after Ball had met with Petrov, impressing upon him the importance of Mickey’s guaranteed safety, relative to the upcoming Sanchez trial. Of course, Petrov now had grave concerns pertaining to both Mickey and Ian’s safety, surrounding the AB’s recent attack on T as well. He felt the flood waters rising, but lacked the necessary tools to stem the tide. 

He knew he could call in State Law Enforcement, but truly wanted to avoid the kind of attention that would draw from the governor, in whose hands rested his job security. It was bad enough that he had a C.O. in the hospital after an inmate attack. He couldn’t afford to appear incompetent again.

___________________________

“I need Milkovich! Right away!” Ball shouted as he approached Beau at his guard post outside Mickey and Ian’s door. Beau rapped on the door harshly in response, before announcing Ball’s entry. “Mickey! Mr. Ball is here for you,” he called in, already having become familiar enough with both Mickey and Ian to address them by their first names. His initial gruff manner with Mickey, when he had escorted him to and from the warden’s office on Ian’s first day, had been nothing more than a show, designed to convince Petrov of his ability to handle belligerent inmates.

In reality, he harbored absolutely no animosity toward Mickey. In fact, he hated the cartel and everything it represented. He’d had plenty of experience with them, even prior to becoming a C.O. He knew all too well how they coerced people who were down-and-out into making high-risk runs and carrying out shady deals , only to leave them holding the bag when there was trouble.

This was precisely what had happened to his younger brother, who had become mixed up with the cartel through his never-ending quest for money to feed his drug habit. He had ended up taking the fall for the cartel, after a big bust in Chicago. Once he had been arrested and convicted, however, the cartel became nervous. Someone had tipped them off that he had accepted visits from the D.A., and within a week, he was gone, bludgeoned to death by several dumbbell-wielding Mexicans in a remote corner of the prison yard. Oddly, no one had seen a thing!

The day after his brother’s funeral, Beau applied for a C.O. position at Stateville. It took some time; he got passed over for the first few openings, but within six months, he had his job, planning to use it to do all he could to thwart the cartel’s efforts to kill off its opponents and to limit its power, in general.

In the short time that he’d worked there, just under two years, Beau had learned a few things: 1) The Russians hated the cartel doing business in Chicago, since they competed for the same market; 2) Anyone not still actively working for them was seen as a risk to be eliminated; and 3) They were one of the three most powerful groups in Statesville, along with the Russians and the AB, all of which constantly jockeyed for position, sometimes forming unlikely alliances in an attempt to get and stay on top.

He had also come to know that there weren’t many other C.O.s who could be trusted. T and Chapman had made his short list, along with Rabinski, who was out on Workers Comp after an unfortunate slip-and-fall injury in the laundry area, where the Mexicans primarily worked.

Needless to say, Beau had a vested interest in keeping Mickey alive and well, so he took his guard duty very seriously. For this reason, he listened closely at the door as Ball outlined the urgency of his visit. “I need you showered and ready for transport in thirty minutes. The defense is questioning your mental competency, based on your medical condition, which I had to disclose when I added you to the witness list,” Ball explained.

“What’s the big fuckin’ hurry?!” Mickey huffed with disdain, inching away from Ian’s warmth hesitantly, reaching for his robe. “If we don’t get this taken care of today, it could delay the trial, which has been scheduled for Friday,” Ball huffed in annoyance. “Better go, Mick,” Ian prodded, recoiling from Mickey’s body as much as he was able, in an effort to hasten Mickey’s departure. He knew that the sooner the trial was over, the sooner Mickey had a chance at his Compassionate Release, which Ian was now banking on, one hundred percent, in hopes that he might be somehow eligible for his surgery, once he was no longer incarcerated.

He had planned to talk to Ball about letting Mickey off the hook for the Burman case. He would argue that his testimony, along with T’s would be sufficient. But he knew now was not the time to bring this idea to his attention, seeing very clearly how desperately focused he was on getting Mickey to his evaluation.

As Mickey headed for the bathroom, Ball spoke up, “They want to make you seem unstable---crazy. I talked to Dr. Byrnes. He says there’s nothing wrong like that. Just a bulging blood vessel that might…”

“Hey!” Ian hissed through his slowly healing, but still majorly fucked up lips, his jaw clenched in anger. “Well…” Ball continued, visibly flustered, “Just answer their questions normally. They’ll probably do a CT scan as well. It’s a formality. As long as you don’t act like a nutjob, everything should be fine,” he said as convincingly as he could, adding a condescending, “Do you understand?”

“Yes, he fucking understands!” Ian yelled. “If he doesn’t, then you better be pretty fucking worried!” Ian couldn’t stomach the way Ball talked down to Mickey. In fact, he’d thought many times that, if he ever had occasion to meet Ball under other circumstances, out in the real world, he’d like nothing better than to kick the shit out of him!

Ian lay still, doing his best to calm himself, while Mickey took his shower and got changed into a fresh jumpsuit. He looked absolutely divine, despite the obnoxious yellow of the suit, his freshly-shaven face and intense blue eyes taking Ian back to their first session together, when they were both so young, full of life...and horny as hell. Over the years, Ian often thought Mickey had lost that, looking even older than his biological age, the stress of life as a Milkovich in Southside Chicago, combined with the misfortune of hooking up with a bat-shit crazy, bipolar Gallagher, having taken its toll.

But he didn’t think so today. “C’mere!” he called to Mickey with the enthusiasm of a healthy man, though he was anything but. Mickey strode over with a soft smile, reserved for Ian’s eyes only, Ian reaching up to tangle his fingers in Mickey’s still damp, shiny, black hair, pulling Mickey’s face down to his own for a light kiss. Fuck, he wanted more from this beautifully youthful looking man of his dreams, but the mess that was his own face wouldn’t allow it at the moment. He felt his cock twitch in vain as their lips touched, reaffirming his determination to have Mickey forever, once all was said and done, at all costs.

“I’ll be back before ya know it,” Mickey assured him, kissing Ian’s forehead, before heading out the door. “Ready,” he announced, Beau taking a moment to cuff him, wrists and ankles, as was protocol for ambulatory inmates who were being transported, before Ball walked up on him, dragging him by the arm toward the elevator. “Hold that!” Ball bellowed frantically, “We need to be on that!” 

Chapman, who was already on the elevator, escorting Ramirez to his cell, pressed the ‘close door’ button, making an effort to avoid a potentially deadly situation for Mickey. “I said WAIT!” Ball shrieked, wedging his loafer-clad foot between the rapidly closing elevator doors, then yanking Mickey’s manacled body into the elevator as the doors bounced open in response to Ball’s interference.

“What the fuck!?” Mickey growled in frustrated protest, catching sight of Ramirez, who eyeballed him back menacingly. Mickey struggled against his restraints, doing his best to wriggle free from Ball’s grasp before the doors closed again. Suddenly, Mickey felt dizzy, his pulse pounding---hot and sweaty, as if he were trapped in a steam room wearing a parka. He felt a sharp pain in his left temple, his field of vision narrowing until he could see only a thin sliver of light in front of him, fading, fading, fading---then complete darkness.


	19. When It Rains...

Ramirez kicked, spat and stomped on Mickey’s lifeless body, rattling off a long string of obscenities in Spanish, as Chapman fought for control over the enraged man. Ball, petrified and completely ill-equipped to handle such a situation, backed into the corner of the elevator, trembling as he fumbled for his phone, finally managing to call for assistance. 

After several brutal blows to the head with Chapman’s baton, Ramirez, now disoriented, staggered out of the elevator and into the waiting arms of two young C.O.s, who had been sent in response to Ball’s call. Chapman, having been assigned specifically to Ramirez, was now in the position of having to abandon his assignment, in order to ensure Mickey’s safety, if that was even possible in this scenario. Once the two C.O.s had Ramirez firmly in hand, Chapman turned to reassess Mickey’s condition, narrowing his eyes in disgust as they met Ball’s.

Chapman knew he would be hearing from the warden over this fiasco, and was none too happy about it. He only hoped that his aggressive response to Ramirez’s attack on Mickey would be supported and not criticized. He was unsure as to the relationship between Ball and Warden Petrov, but he hoped Petrov could see Ball as the arrogant, self-serving asshole that he was. As far as Chapman was concerned, Ball’s pompous conceit and indifference toward the unfortunate inmates he exploited, all but oozed from his pores. 

As much as he wanted to leave Ball to handle an unconscious, possibly medically unstable Mickey on his own, since he had caused the entire clusterfuck, Chapman had no other choice but to help Ball. He approached Mickey’s now minutely stirring form, making the executive decision to have Ball call 9-1-1. 

As soon as Ball saw the tiniest move from Mickey, he stowed his phone and began pulling at Mickey’s cuffed wrists in an attempt to get him back on his feet. “A little help here?!” Ball snorted indignantly as he wrestled against Mickey’s dead weight. “C’mon, Milkovich!” Ball grunted, “The transport van is here for you! We gotta go!”

“Mr. Ball, you really need to wait for the paramedics. He’s not...he’s…” Chapman struggled to find a polite way of telling Ball he was an idiot to move someone who could be on the verge of death, without freaking Mickey out or appearing disrespectful to Ball. He finally settled on, “They will have a stretcher and all of the necessary tools to ensure a safe transport.”

“Petrov’s gonna hear about your insubordination!” Ball spat between labored breaths, still callously manhandling Mickey. Chapman sighed in defeat, coming to accept the idea that his name would be ‘mud’ around the prison after this. Then he heard it---a low, slurred growl rising from the floor below, between Mickey’s gritted teeth, “Fuckkkk Youuuuu…” Mickey kicked his shackled feet into the air in unison, planting them firmly in Ball’s protruding gut and sending him flying into the back wall of the elevator. 

Chapman stifled a giggle, turning away just in time to hit the ‘door open’ button for the approaching paramedics. Both men looked at Mickey, then Ball, then Chapman, confused. “The one in cuffs,” he directed with a pointed finger, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. Chapman looked on as they tended to Mickey, requesting that his cuffs be removed in order to facilitate their transferring him to the stretcher. “Sure, why not?” he thought to himself, as he removed Mickey’s handcuffs. He was all but certain he was going to be fighting for his job after this, regardless, and didn’t see any value in blindly following protocol at this point. 

Chapman removed Mickey’s cuffs, speaking softly to him, “These men are here to help you. Please stay calm.” Mickey, though mumbling incoherently, complied with the efforts of the paramedics, and was being wheeled out of the elevator in a matter of minutes. The elevator doors slid closed behind them, Ball, who was struggling to get on his feet, crying out, once again, for help. 

Chapman, completely ignoring Ball’s plea, hastened his gait, assisting Mickey’s quick exit from the prison and wishing him well, though he wasn’t sure if Mickey understood him or not. He pulled the C.O. from the waiting transport vehicle, quickly informing him of the incident and sending him to ride with Mickey in the ambulance. 

Chapman reentered the prison and was just about to head for the Warden’s office, hoping to tell his version of the story before Petrov heard from anyone else, when he got a call from Beau in the infirmary. There was a loud scuffle on the other end of the phone, followed by Beau’s urgent request for help. “I’m on my way,” Chapman responded, boarding the now vacant elevator.

___________________________________

Somehow Ball managed to reach Good Samaritan’s Emergency Lot before Mickey had even been unloaded from the ambulance, taking the opportunity to run ahead and pre-empt the paramedics’ assessment with his own story, citing to the immediate need for a CT scan and psych eval for “legal purposes”, as he put it. He then showed a court order for the expedited reading and sharing of results, again claiming this to be, “a legal matter of great import.”

Once Mickey was wheeled back into an exam room, the CT scan was the first order of business, and would have been, regardless of Ball’s request. But for Ball, things weren’t moving fast enough. He insisted on speaking to the ER physician on duty, pressing him to have a staff psychologist come in for a consult to establish mental competency, while they waited for the CT scan and results. 

Upon hearing Ball’s ridiculous request, the doctor shook his head in disbelief, responding, “Sir, this man may not survive. He certainly isn’t capable of fielding questions of any kind.”

 

____________________________________

Teresa was a wreck. She’d been waiting all morning to hear something---anything---about T’s condition. She’d checked and rechecked with all of her friends. Finally, as a means of distraction, she opted to inquire about Mickey’s situation and the likelihood of his having surgery, if he were to marry someone with private, rather than State insurance. 

She certainly wasn’t looking for a husband. That was a mistake, in her mind, to be made only once. But getting married to save a life? That was definitely worth the inconvenience. Add to that, giving an absolutely lovely person a chance at the future he desired more than anything in the world, and it was a done deal. She would do this, if it was the only way to give Ian the happiness he so richly deserved.

After talking to a Benefits Coordinator, she felt secure in the belief that Mickey could, in fact, receive the surgery under her insurance plan, even if he were still incarcerated, once they were married. She knew Mickey would be against it. He wanted to marry one, and only one person on the planet. She also knew that Ian wouldn’t allow him not to do it, if it meant his full recovery. 

She texted the news to a close O.R. nurse friend, Paige, who had come on duty earlier that morning. Over the course of their conversation, she learned that T’s surgery had been somewhat problematic, but that he was expected to be in recovery soon. She also heard the news of Mickey’s admission and pending surgery. 

She was shocked and dismayed to find out that Mickey’s aneurysm had burst, and that his prognosis was uncertain at this time, due to extensive intracranial bleeding, and the delay in his arrival, after the incident. She was, however, glad to know that, if Mickey survived, he would no longer have a ticking time-bomb in his head. She was also extremely relieved to hear about T, but then instantly thought of Ian, wondering if he knew about Mickey, and, if he did, how he was holding up, knowing that Mickey might not…

”No,” she told herself, “I can’t think that way. T is fine, and Mickey will be, too!.” She crossed her arms defiantly, refusing to succumb to the negativity that had seeped into her exhausted, sleep-deprived brain the moment she heard about Mickey. 

Teresa tried to guide her thoughts of gloom and doom in another direction, attempting to focus on the coffee date she had promised herself she would have with T, once he was out of the hospital and on the mend, but it was no use! For some reason that she was still unable to pinpoint, she felt Ian’s impending anguish, almost as if it were her own. She just couldn’t get his bruised and swollen face out of her head. She watched in her mind’s eye as he heard the news, seeing him fall apart, so distraught, so broken, so alone.

She had to find out if he knew. She wondered who they’d gotten to cover her shift, debating about whether she should call the infirmary and ask some questions. Finally, after fighting with herself for nearly an hour, she decided to call and ask for Beau. Surely, Chapman could cover for him for five minutes. She quickly found the number in her phone and hit ‘send’, before she had time to second-guess herself. 

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Half Ring, then bounced back to the Main Menu. Whoever the fuck was working for her, she figured, didn’t know what the hell they were doing. She checked the time, weighing her options. She could call Erika, but she knew she’d be encroaching on the small window of opportunity she had to get some sleep. Or she could head for the Surgical floor, hoping to run into the C.O. who had accompanied Mickey to the hospital. She decided on the latter, anticipating a shot at seeing T on his way out of surgery. 

As the elevator doors opened, opposite the entrance to the OR Suite, Teresa caught sight of a man being wheeled out. “T!” she mouthed silently, her heart leaping into her throat with nervous excitement, as her eyes moved over his peaceful, motionless form. She fought the urge to run to him, realizing, as a nurse, that he needed to get to the CCU and get situated. “Better to see him once the anesthetic wears off and he’s, hopefully, able to speak,” she convinced herself, turning her head to scan the area until her eyes landed on a muscular, young man in a C.O’s uniform. He was 20 years old, tops, his skill-set falling woefully short of the task at hand, Teresa could tell, just by looking at him.

Of course, he was never meant to be guarding Mickey, under these circumstances. His purpose had been to escort him, as a conscious, ambulatory inmate, while the D.A. walked him through the necessary steps of proving him competent to testify. All of this additional responsibility had been thrust upon him out of necessity, the result of a series of unforeseen events, the time-sensitivity of the situation precluding the possibility of a switch of escorts. 

Teresa, unaware of the circumstances leading up to his having this role, shook her head in disbelief as she approached his chair. “Excuse me,” she whispered, the boy jumping in his seat, startled, as she addressed him, and giving off a ‘deer in headlights’ vibe when he looked up at her.

“My name is Teresa. I’m a nurse at Stateville,” she explained, extending her hand after introducing herself. The young man shook her hand tentatively, his eyes darting around the corridor suspiciously. “No one else from work is here,” she added, hoping to relax his tongue a bit. “Listen,” she whispered, “Do ya know anything about what happened, or who at the prison knows about it?” she prodded. 

He stared back at her silently, his lips pressed together tightly as he seemed to be considering his answer. “All...all I know...is that Chapman told me to...to... get in the ambulance,” he stammered, nervously surveying his surroundings again. “So Chapman wasn’t on guard duty in the infirmary?” Teresa questioned, the weight of her rapidly increasing level of concern evident in her pained expression. 

“I..I..he...he...was outside by the ambulance,” was all she got. “Fuck!” Teresa muttered under her breath, instantly panicked over who, if anyone, might have been assigned to guard Ramirez. She scurried away, finding a quiet corner, then calling the infirmary again. No answer. 

This time she remained on the line, working her way through the main menu, then reluctantly selecting option 9, the Warden’s office. Petrov’s secretary, Karen, answered on the half-ring, an air of trepidation clearly discernible in her voice. “It’s Teresa. Teresa Lewis,” Teresa began urgently, “I need to talk to Warden Petrov. “I’m sorry, Teresa, but the Warden isn’t available at the moment,” Karen responded, giving her standard, pat answer. “Come on, Karen! You know me! This is urgent!” she all but begged, the myriad disturbingly dangerous possibilities overtaking her emotionally overloaded mind. “I’m sorry, Teresa. The prison is on lock-down. The Warden has left the office to deal with some pressing circumstances,” Karen shared reluctantly. 

“Karen! What’s going on?” Teresa squeaked through her tightening throat, “PLEASE!” Teresa’s entire body was quaking violently. She knew, before Karen answered, that something was terribly amiss, and that the infirmary was involved. She huffed out a shaking, fear-filled breath of desperation as Karen cleared her throat and began to speak, “There is an ongoing situation in the infirmary. SWAT has been called.”


	20. Mutiny On The Bounty

“Shit! Call 9-1-1! This fuck is gonna tap out!” Chapman screamed, having arrived at the infirmary, just before two ambulatory inmate patients blocked passage to and from the elevator. This was the third time within two hours that someone from Stateville had called 9-1-1. Shortly after the first ambulance left the prison, carrying Mickey, two AB members, who had been admitted to the infirmary early that morning with severe dehydration, were rushed to Good Samaritan, after going into cardiac arrest, along with a third that was showing signs of possible organ failure, all of which required multiple ambulances. Now, they were requesting a yet another ambulance for Adolf, boss of the AB, who had been critically wounded, after attacking another inmate. 

It had been Beau who had somehow managed to call for SWAT, amid all of the chaos that had ensued. He had done so in desperation, after what could only be described as an active hostage situation.

______________________

It all began when the first set of paramedics arrived on the scene, rendering resuscitative care to the dying AB patients and preparing them for transport to the hospital. Phoebe, the agency nurse who was filling in for Teresa, was busy assisting, Beau having come out onto the ward to watch over the other patients, in case anyone tried to board the elevator, since they were short a C.O. 

All of the AB patients, along with four others, who were unable to get out of bed, due to the severity of their injuries or illnesses, as well as their dependency upon IVs of some type, were being housed on one side of the ward, affectionately known as the “drip den.” The other side, which Beau was currently more concerned with, was a temporary home to patients who were at least partially ambulatory, many of them merely under observation, pending discharge. 

Other than the newly admitted AB patients, all of whom were gravely ill, the rest of the ‘drippers’ had been there for over a week, completely bedridden and absolutely no security threat. 

Everything seemed to be under control, other than the paramedics’ struggle to revive and transport the patients they tended to, when Adolf, seeming to have been miraculously cured of his condition, suddenly sprung up from his bed, yanking the IV from his arm, grabbing his pillow, and bolting for the private room that Ian now occupied alone. 

Adolf entered stealthily, hoping to sneak up on Mickey and smother him, while Ian slept, then finish Ian off afterward. As he searched the room for Mickey, figuring he must have gone to use the restroom, he approached the restroom door, accidentally kicking the meal table beside it and knocking a tray to the floor with a loud crash. Ian jolted awake, calling out to Mickey, whom, he assumed, was returning from the hospital. “No…” Adolf began in a quiet, innocuous tone that completely contradicted both his personality and his current purpose, “But where is your pussyboy?” he purred, having seen, by now, that the restroom was vacant. 

“Beau!” Ian called out in fearful desperation, unable to even get himself into a seated position before Adolf was on him, crushing his body with his own, pressing his pillow down over Ian’s squawking face, full-force, his fury seeming to give him the strength of ten men. Ian fought, as best he could, thrashing his body about under the other man’s significant weight, using his arms and hands to try and push him off, to no avail. 

It was in this moment of frenzied self-preservation, brought on by near suffocation, that Ian remembered what Mickey had brought with him from Solitary. A gift from the Russians in the kitchen. He reached under the mattress, gripping Mickey’s shiv tightly in his fist. He raised his right arm and began frantically stabbing at Adolf, recklessly connecting with any and every body part possible in his last-ditch effort at survival. 

Beau, who’s attention had remained focused on the other side of the ward, was completely oblivious to Adolf’s departure, until he heard a ruckus coming from Ian’s room. Suddenly everyone in the infirmary was aware, as Beau bounded across the ward, bursting into the room. 

What he found defied all logic, Adolf’s body completely collapsed atop Ian’s, bleeding profusely from the ribs and neck. In fact, upon closer examination, Beau was sure Ian had nicked Adolf’s carotid artery, judging by the growing pool of blood that was forming on the floor, next to the bed. Ian had managed to knock Adolf’s pillow onto the adjacent bed, and was still quite winded when Beau asked, “What the fuck happened?”

Before Ian could answer, Chapman rushed into the room, took one look at the scene before him, and shouted for someone to call 9-1-1. Beau stood, frozen, as Chapman approached, rendering emergency aid and shouting for Paige, who had finally assisted in getting the paramedics and their patients successfully into the elevator without incident, only minutes before. 

As she made the call, two curious ambulatory patients made their way over to the doorway of the room, just in time to see Ian struggling to pull himself out from under Adolf, as Chapman continued to apply pressure to the neck wounds. Immediately, they understood that the 9-1-1 call was for Adolf, not Ian. 

As word got back to the unattended ambulatory inmates, a plot to keep the paramedics off the unit emerged. Most of these patients had gotten to know Ian, through his work at the infirmary, prior to his most recent injury, and they liked him. Others had been victims of Adolf and the AB, and simply joined in to try and keep Adolf from getting to the hospital. Most got involved for a combination of those reasons.

“No one’s gettin’ in here to save that Motherfucker!” Breen, a burly African American prisoner piped up, grabbing Paige from behind and quickly overpowering her. “They try comin’ in here and I’ll snap her fuckin’ neck!” he threatened menacingly, putting a hand on either side of her head and beginning to twist, all the while pinning him to her with one leg wrapped around both of hers. “Yeah,” a second inmate shouted, at which point Beau ducked back into the private room, making a call for SWAT intervention. 

“Please don’t do this, man,” Ian pleaded, as Beau began providing the details to SWAT dispatch, “Let me talk to these guys.” Ian had managed to pull himself into an upright position by now, and was preparing to make an attempt at maneuvering himself out onto the ward. 

______________________

Ball sidled up to Teresa with a disapproving glare. “What are YOU doing here?” he snarled contemptuously, “Shouldn’t you be at work? Maybe I wouldn’t have the problem I do, if you’d been there to do your job!” Teresa scowled at him, clearing her throat, then turning away from him without comment. “Insubordinate bunch the warden has working for him over there at Stateville,” he added snidely. 

“Listen, Mr. Ball, I don’t work for you, nor do I have anything to say to you, so if you wouldn’t mind…” Teresa responded with as much politeness as she could muster, before getting up to approach Paige, who had just exited the OR Suite. As she met Paige just outside the double doors, she looked over her shoulder, heaving an exasperated sigh that she knew would convey her sentiments toward Ball, without so much as a word. 

Reading her friend with ease, Paige pulled Teresa just inside the doors, before beginning to speak to her in complete privacy. “Mickey’s aneurysm has been clipped and they’ve placed a drain to help reduce the pressure on his brain. He has also been started on blood pressure medication, which should be helpful, as well. As you know, Teresa, there could be permanent…” Paige was interrupted by loud knocking on the other side of the double doors. 

“Yes,” Paige spoke kindly through a three-inch crack between the two doors that she had created by opening one, just a touch. “I’m Ellis Ball, District Attorney. I need to know when Mikhailo Milkovich will be ready for a psych consult. I need a psychiatrist to sign off on his mental competency,” Ball rattled off, Paige shooting Teresa an amused grin, complete with eye-roll. “Sir, this man’s prognosis is guarded, at best. It could be weeks before he speaks, if he is ever to speak again. I don’t think you…”

 

Ball stopped her, mid-sentence, “Oh, I understand,” he huffed, “I’ll be getting a court order to have him assessed as soon as possible. He is a pivotal witness in a very important case!” he droned on, though Paige had already pulled the door shut and stepped away to continue her conversation with Teresa.

“Bottom line: What do you think?” Teresa asked Paige, wincing as Paige began sharing her opinion. “Teresa, there’s been heavy bleeding into the cerebrospinal fluid, so there’s significant intracranial pressure. They are doing all they can to reduce that as quickly as possible. There’s really no telling, at this point, if or how much brain damage there may be,” Paige spoke honestly, adding, “Does the boyfrield know?” 

Teresa blindly searched her purse with her hand for her phone, which she had shoved into it in frustration, after speaking with Karen, the Warden’s secretary. Once she finally recovered it, she redialed the infirmary, hoping someone would pick up this time. “I’m gonna try to find out,” she replied to Paige, as she waited for an answer. Again, she was bounced back to the Main Menu, after which she hung up, resigning herself to having to wait. It seemed to her, that was all she was doing in life, at this moment---waiting. 

“Hey,” Paige began, trying to help Teresa refocus her energy on something more positive, “Why don’t you head over to the CCU. I’m sure your friend is set up there by now. Hopefully, he’s awake and can add you to his HIPPA list,” she suggested with a smile. Teresa returned Paige’s smile with a weak, sorry excuse for one of her own, then pushed the door open and exited into the corridor, where Ball stood, barking into his phone. 

“No, I don’t want to file for a postponement! I just need…” he stopped speaking suddenly, obviously listening to whomever was on the other end of the phone, then replying, “Yes, I understand...I will...Yes,” before ending the call and yelling, “Fuck!” just as he turned to see Teresa watching. 

“Well, now your boy’s gonna have to wait a long time over there. Don’t know how Petrov’s gonna keep the Cartel from killing him!” Ball fumed. Teresa took the opportunity to pry a bit, in hopes of getting some helpful information from this piece of shit. “Ian says you filed for Mickey’s Compassionate Release,” she spoke subtly, testing the waters. “Yeah,” he quipped, pressing his lips together into a grimace, “So?”

“Well, his medical condition right now should certainly qualify him. Maybe you can get him into some type of witness protection on the outside,” she suggested boldly. “You think I haven’t thought of that?!” he yelled back at her, insulted. “No way this fuck would stick around and risk testifying, if we let him out before the damn trial! Don’t be naive!” he chided her. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think there’s a way,” she shot back, his ears perking up at the suggestion. Teresa did her best to hide the smirk that was spreading over her face. She was quite pleased with how readily he seemed to be entertaining her ideas. 

After a long moment of silence, Ball grilled Teresa impatiently, “Well?! So...what’s your proposition? I don’t have all day.” “You just get him the Compassionate Release…” Teresa trailed off, heading for the elevator, taking delight in leaving Ball hanging. 

____________________

As Teresa exited the elevator, Michael, T’s nurse, caught sight of her and called out, “Ms. Lewis, Mr. McKenna is awake, and has given his consent for you to have access to his medical information. Teresa’s eyes welled up with tears instantly, her voice wavering as she spoke, “Can I see him?”

“Of course,” Michael replied, leading her to his room. “Teresa,” a weak, hoarse voice croaked as she entered. “T!” she squealed happily, rushing to his bedside. “How are you feeling?” she asked, a bit more subdued, now that his frail condition began to register, once again, in her brain. “Much better, now that you’re here,” he answered, a faint spark in his eyes lighting up his otherwise fatigued countenance, drawing her in, until their lips were touching. “T...I’ve been so worried,” she confessed, pressing her forehead against his. “Don’t be,” he comforted, “C’mere,” he commanded, his outstretched arms serving as all the encouragement she needed. She lay her head on his shoulder, tears now flowing freely down her face as she allowed herself to let go of all of the pent up worry, frustration and sadness that had been building inside her since all of this madness had ensued.

“So...tell me how Mickey and Ian are doing?” he asked, stroking her hair lightly with his fingers. Teresa’s heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t bring herself to tell T about Mickey, or about Ian, for that matter. “Can...can we talk about that later?” she pleaded, “I just want to rest here with you right now...Want to hear how you’re doing...And what happened to you. But only when you’re ready to share that,” she expressed in a reassuring tone. 

“Alright then,” he whispered, “How about if we just rest, for now?” he suggested, weaving his fingers into her hair playfully. Teresa nodded silently, reaching for his hand and bringing it to her lips. She shut her eyes and melted into T, succumbing to her exhaustion within minutes, secure in T’s soothing presence.


	21. SNAFU

“Gallagher! You answer it!” Breen barked, his two large hands still gripping Paige’s head in a vice-like manner. Ian hobbled over to the nurse’s station, using every stationary object between himself and the phone to lean on, rather than risk putting any of his body weight on his newly-set leg. 

Burman and Chapman, both of whom had, along with the badly-injured Adolf, been barricaded in the private room, yelled loudly for the prisoners standing guard on the other side of the door, pleading with them to open it, before it was too late. 

“Infirmary,” Ian answered, not really sure what to expect. “Ian?” Teresa’s puzzled voice came in response. “Yes, Teresa, it’s not...a good time. Can you…” Ian stopped, mid-sentence, in response to a loud pounding coming from the fire exit, which led to a set of stairs. “No one’s gettin’ in here!” Hamilton, the inmate who had been assigned to barricade and guard that door responded. “It’s the Warden!” Petrov yelled through the closed door, “Better let the paramedics in, or SWAT’s gonna bust in. They’ll put holes in anyone that have to, to gain entry.”

“Teresa! Hold on…” Ian spoke into the phone nervously, before setting it down atop the counter of the nurse’s station. “Breen,” Ian spoke calmly in a low voice, “Just let them in. It’s not gonna matter,” he tried to explain, pointing in the general direction of the private room. “They gonna just put us all in Solitary, then save that Motherfucker’s life!” Breen objected, his words spewing from his lips like venom. “You got any idea what that piece a shit and his AB associates did to me when I first got here?” Breen went on, his voice becoming more and more vicious with each word he spoke. “Dude deserves to die!” he thundered, twisting Paige’s neck as he spoke. 

Ian swallowed hard, suddenly realizing how much blood covered his right hand and had spattered over most of his gown, then responded in little more than a whisper, as he pointed at Paige, “He will. Trust me. Now please let her go.” Breen seemed to be considering it, as Ian continued, “And let the paramedics get to him. You don’t want SWAT up here. You can believe me on that, too,” Ian reasoned, looking at Breen hopefully, as he watched his facial expression change from reservation to resignation. 

“Warden!” Ian hollered, hoping his voice was loud enough to carry through the closed door Petrov stood behind, “These inmates haven’t done anything more here than try to protect me from Adolf. He attacked me. Almost killed me. Please...if they let the paramedics in, can we...can we see about showing them some leniency? They’re good guys who have always treated me well,” Ian argued, adding, better than some of your staff, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Ian was going out on a limb, bringing up the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of prison staff, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t bear the thought of these guys going down for supporting him. “Please, Warden. Call off the dogs, and they’ll open the door,” he bargained, Breen having loosened his grip on Paige and given Ian a reluctant nod of approval. “I’m afraid I can’t do that without some assurance that Ms. Halsey is alive and unharmed,” Petrov retorted. 

Ian glanced over at Breen and Paige expectantly. Breen released her, after which she immediately ran for the barricaded and heavily guarded emergency exit door. “Warden,” Paige spoke in a soft, shaky voice, “I’m scared...but I’m not hurt. I apologize that things got so out of hand here,” she continued with a nod in Ian’s direction, as she struggled to catch her breath. “But all of this happened because of Adolf, who apparently...tried to...to...kill Gallagher,” she stammered, her voice rising nearly an octave, as her throat tightened in fear and anticipation. 

“Open the door,” Petrov commanded, Paige reaching for the doorknob as the men guarding it began moving the heavy equipment that blocked it. “Wait!” Ian shouted, just before she began turning the knob, “Call SWAT off first!” There was a moment of dead silence, followed by the sound of Petrov’s voice, requesting that SWAT stand down. Paige turned the knob slowly, releasing the locking mechanism. 

Just then, a half-dozen SWAT team members burst through the door, surveying the scene and subduing and/or securing all inmates before allowing the paramedics to enter. Paige, completely overwhelmed by the influx of boisterous, heavily-armed alpha males, turned to the paramedics, quietly directing them to the private room, from which Chapman and Beau quickly emerged, Chapman announcing that Adolph was dead. 

The paramedics entered briskly, confirming Chapmans’ claim in under a minute. Finally, Petrov stepped through the door, racing for the room where Adolf’s dead body now lay. “Don’t touch anything!” he hollered. “The State Police and Coroner need to come, before we can do any clean-up or preparations..I’m afraid both of you will need to stay until we get this thing wrapped up. You, too, Paige. And Gallagher, I’ll need a statement from you, since, I’m assuming, there were no witnesses to the interaction between yourself and Adolf,” Petrov spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. 

He’d quite obviously seen this type of scenario before, and was no longer flustered, now that the crisis was over. In fact, Ian thought he detected a hint of contentment in Petrov’s voice as he continued to address him, “I’m sorry for all you’ve had to go through, and that you were put in such a position today, but…

“No big deal,” Ian responded, wondering if he should apologize for killing the guy and come clean about using a shiv to do it. “I…” Ian began, uncertain as to what he was actually going to say. Petrov cut him off, gesturing toward the now open door to what had been Ian and Mickey’s room “We’ll sit down together to go over your statement, once we handle this.”

Ian nodded in understanding, suddenly remembering that he had left Teresa on hold for quite a long time. He was sure she would have hung up, but wanted to check, just to be sure. “Warden,” Ian began, nearly losing his balance as he attempted to turn in Petrov’s direction. Being handcuffed made balancing himself quite difficult, since he was unable to use his hands to steady himself on the nearest flat surface. “Teresa was on the phone earlier. Can I check to see if she’s still there?” he asked. “Uncuff him,” Petrov growled at a nearby SWAT officer, on his way to meet the Coroner and police, all of whom had just ridden the elevator up. 

“Gallagher!” Breen called out as Ian’s hands were being freed, shoving a wheelchair in his direction with his foot. Ian sat down in the chair and wheeled himself over to the nurse’s station. “Teresa?” he questioned as he raised the phone to his ear. “Ian!! Oh my God! What the fuck is going on over there?” she demanded in a panicked tone. 

“Teresa, it’s fine. Everything’s fine,” he assured her, hearing a sigh of relief on the other end of the phone. “As I’m sure you heard, though, a lotta shit happened here, so I gotta go make a statement. Adolf is dead” he shared. There was a pregnant pause, during which Ian thought he might have heard Teresa breathe the word, ‘yes’. She then advised,“Be careful what you say and how you say it. And listen, it’s real important that you do everything right in there,” 

“Not that I wouldn’t anyway, but why are you telling me this?” he asked curiously. “Ian, just be careful. Give them only the information they ask for,” she instructed him. “What is all this?!” Ian asked, beginning to worry a bit about Teresa’s cryptic warnings. “Ian, I’ll see you tomorrow, when I come in. We’ll talk then. It’s important, but now is not the time,” Teresa spoke reassuringly, then ending the call. 

“Gallagher! Let’s get this out of the way, Petrov barked, motioning for Ian to join him in the office. Ian wheeled himself in, Petrov shutting the door immediately thereafter. “I’ll take your statement, then I’ll need to make arrangements for your transfer ASAP!” 

“But Mickey…” Ian began in protest. Petrov interrupted authoritatively, “Milkovich’s situation has become quite complicated. Let’s just stick to getting your statement right now.” “What do you mean, ‘complicated’?” Ian demanded. Petrov immediately realized that Ian had no knowledge of the recent events involving Mickey, and didn’t want to fluster him, especially since he needed to get his statement put together as quickly as possible. Gallagher!” the Warden raised his voice in an attempt to stifle Ian’s inquisitiveness. 

“I just don’t know when or if he’ll be back here, so your transfer must be considered wholly for your benefit alone,” Petrov finally offered, after realizing Ian wasn’t going to let this go anyway, no matter what. “What does that mean!?” Ian whined, raising his voice in concern. “I don’t know the details, only that he’s had surgery at Good Samaritan, and will be there at least until he is stable enough to be moved,” Petrov shared, all the while wishing he hadn’t. 

“Surgery!? Did the aneurysm burst?!” Ian snorted, as countless horrific scenarios rolled through his mind. Ian was doing his damnedest to keep his cool and to not start bawling, but he needed answers---to know Mickey’s condition, his prognosis, the circumstances leading up to the surgery---all of it. 

“Let’s get your statement recorded, then I’ll call Good Samaritan and get an update on him,” Petrov offered. Ian bowed his head, fighting back the tears, “What do you need to know?” he hissed.


	22. The Blink Of An Eye

Ball strutted into the Warden’s office, demanding to see Petrov at once. Karen balked, citing to the fact that the Warden was on an important phone call, and requesting that he wait. Ball pushed right past her, as if she weren’t even there. “Petrov,” he shouted, despite having clearly seen that he was, in fact, on the phone. Petrov raised his left index finger, but Ball just kept talking, “Milkovich’s Compassionate Release will most certainly be granted, due to his extraordinary circumstances, but until then, since he is still unconscious and he has no next of kin listed, you and your medical personnel are the decision makers, as far as his continued medical care. We gotta do something! I need him to wake up and fucking testify!”

Again, Petrov, who was clearly incapable of listening to two people at once, attempted to postpone their conversation, until he could finish his phone call, which happened to be with T’s doctor from Good Samaritan. “Excuse me, please,” Petrov spoke into the phone, before covering the receiver with the palm of his hand, while he addressed Ball. “Mr. Ball! This is an urgent call of great significance. Please step out into the waiting area.”

Ball stopped talking, but crossed his arms defiantly as he stood fast, making no move for the door. Petrov glared at him. “Look, you either step out, or I’ll have you removed!” Petrov threatened, raising his voice slightly as he stood from his fancy leather chair, setting the phone receiver on his desk. Something about the look on Petrov’s face got Ball moving, but not before he made a snide remark under his breath, “Have it your way. See if I try to protect you and this shithole in Court when everything comes crashing down around your ears.”

“Sorry for the interruption,” Petrov spoke apologetically to the doctor, after which the two continued their discussion about T’s condition. Petrov now knew that T had a long recovery ahead of him, and that, even if and when he became physically able to work again, he would be at great risk if he returned to Stateville as a C.O. Petrov had suspected, from the moment he received the audio files of the assaults in Solitary, that T had been responsible for making them, but once Petrov discovered who had stabbed and otherwise victimized him in the elevator, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind. 

“Of course, Stateville wants him to receive the best care possible,” Petrov responded, after a brief silence, “Our concern, however, is his safety at Good Samaritan, given its proximity to the prison, as well as the contractual relationship that we have with it. In fact, I believe you are currently treating a few of our inmates on an in-patient basis, one of which, Mikhailo Milkovich, is in a similar situation.”

Petrov listened to the doctor’s response, then put his concern more plainly, “Look, if either of these men remain hospitalized there, there’s a good chance someone will find their way in, locate them and kill them.” Finally, it seemed the doctor on the other end of the line understood the situation, promising to set up a transfer right away for T, and also to get some information on Mickey, in hopes of doing the same for him, pending an assessment of his level of stability.

Petrov hung up, still absolutely fuming over Ball’s insolent behavior, which had managed to distract him just enough that he felt uncertain as to whether he’d conveyed the seriousness of Mickey’s situation clearly enough. Both men were in a very dangerous situation, and he knew it. Unfortunately, it sounded like Ball might know something important about Mickey’s circumstances, so he begrudgingly called Karen, requesting that she allow him back into his office. 

“So…” Ball began, smirking at Petrov in a way that made Petrov want to take a swing at him. He resisted the urge, instead inquiring as to the purpose of Ball’s visit. “As I started to tell you...before I was RUDELY interrupted,” Ball whined indignantly. Petrov bit his tongue, remaining quiet as Ball droned on about the lack of respect he routinely received from Petrov and his employees, not to mention the inmates, and how they should appreciate his efforts in Court, especially given the ‘special’ circumstances Stateville now found itself in. 

When, at last, Ball got around to repeating what he’d said about Mickey’s pending Compassionate Release and continued poor health, Petrov finally understood, at least in part, the reasoning behind Ball’s impatience. He’d already had to postpone Chico’s trial, pending Mickey’s recovery, and he wanted to protect his interests, sooner than later, especially after learning what had just happened to Ian. 

Ironically enough, he and Petrov seemed to be on the same page, regarding the necessity of transferring both T and Mickey to another hospital. And when Petrov mentioned moving Ian to another prison, Ball seemed to agree with the logic behind that, as well. 

While Petrov wasn’t a big fan of Ellis Ball, he certainly recognized the benefits of having the D.A.’s office in his corner, when it came to making these changes. Getting Chico convicted was going to be a huge victory for the State, in terms of cutting a major tentacle off the Cartel, but also a great benefit to the Russians, who had been in competition with the Cartel in Chicago for decades, tracing back to the days when Petrov, himself, ran with the Russian mob in the Southside. Even Ivan and the Russians in the kitchen at Stateville understood the importance of this case, which is why they’d gone to such lengths to help Mickey, starting the day he arrived at Stateville. 

Petrov had cleaned himself up---gone legit---but he still had friends and family in the organization that mattered to him, among them, Mickey’s cousin, Sonny. Sonny had saved Petrov’s ass more than a few times when they were young, Sonny being a few years older with more street credit. Petrov hadn’t made the connection at first, but after his conversation with Ivan, following T’s stabbing, he realized who Mickey was, above and beyond being a key witness against the Cartel. 

After this discovery, he immediately began taking extraordinary measures to ensure Mickey’s safety. Unfortunately, Ball had fucked it all up, in his failed attempt to rush him to Good Samaritan for a mental competency evaluation. While Petrov understood the importance of Mickey’s testimony, he didn’t condone Ball’s use of Mickey as a disposable tool. In fact, he had arranged to petition the State insurance system for Mickey’s surgery, that idea unfortunately having become a moot point, after Mickey’s aneurysm burst. 

Now the most he could do was agree with Ball and have him moved somewhere safer, where he could still get the best care possible and would, with any luck, recover enough to be capable of giving his essential testimony.  
____________________

Ian had been an absolute basket case since hearing the news. By the time Erika arrived for her shift, he was beside himself with worry. The Warden’s taking of his statement had gone off without a hitch, Petrov making it abundantly clear that he intended to do everything in his power to keep Ian safe, in exchange for his testimony against Burman. Now that Burman was no longer employed by Stateville, and Adolf was out of the picture, he hoped to get the AB under control, once and for all, which he hoped would greatly diminish the incidence of rape and coerced sexual activity at Stateville. 

Ian had been extremely cooperative through it all, not breathing a word about his intention to use the abuse he’d endured at the hands of Burman, coupled with the recent security breach in the infirmary, not to mention Mickey’s ordeal, as leverage to get Mickey the treatment he deserved, and to find his way back into his arms, for good. Even in this most heart-wrenching, desperate time, Ian didn’t lose sight of the big picture. He was cold and calculating, when it came to his dealings with Petrov, though, on the surface, he gave the appearance of being copacetic, nearly to the point of asskissing.

He knew that giving Petrov what he wanted in this moment would be the quickest avenue to getting all of the latest information about Mickey. What he didn’t know was how badly the information he so desperately craved was going to fuck with him.

Erika had steered clear of Ian for most of her shift, having heard from Tyrone that he was in no mood for visitors. She had now entered his room, merely to administrer his next dose of pain medication, per doctor’s orders. She immediately noticed how ill-at-ease he was. He was sitting up in his bed rigidly, roughly running his fingers repetitively through his hair and gritting his teeth in agitation. Obviously, he hadn’t slept a wink, and there was no outward indication of any in his future either. “Ian, I know how difficult this must be for…” “No, you don’t!!” Ian snapped at Erika, before she could even finish her sentence. Erika was taken aback; she had never seen this side of Ian. 

This brief exchange was all Erika needed, in order to know what would be best. Ian should be sedated, so he could get some sleep. She worried that the stress of his current situation could bring on either a manic or a depressive episode, particularly if he didn’t rest. She also understood, however, that it would be nearly impossible to even get in contact with the doctor at this hour, let alone convince him to prescribe a sedative, on top of the pain meds Ian was already getting. Even though medications of those types could be safely given in combination, protocol prohibited it, without a doctor’s order. Standing orders didn’t apply in this scenario. 

She tried, for a second time, to initiate a conversation. “Ian, I didn’t mean to…” she began. “Then just DON”T! PLEASE!!” Ian screeched, as tears streamed uncontrollably down his face. Obviously, he didn’t want to talk about any of the day’s events, preferring, instead, to wallow in his own misery. 

Erika made an abrupt exit, planning to at least attempt a phone call to Dr. Byrnes, when she saw Teresa exiting the elevator. “You’re early!” Erika exclaimed, genuinely relieved to see her back, after all that had happened since she’d seen her last. “Yeah,” she responded groggily. “I fell asleep in T’s room and figured I’d just come straight here and shower before my shift, rather than driving all the way home,” she explained, rubbing her puffy, sleep-deprived eyes. 

“How’s Ian?” Teresa questioned, as she reached for a clean set of scrubs and a towel from the linen cabinet. Erika looked down at her feet, not wanting to make Teresa’s morning any worse than it already was. 

Teresa made a beeline for Ian’s room, taking her purse and all of the necessary shower supplies with her. She scooted past Tyrone, without as much as a ‘hello’, rushing to Ian’s bedside, and dropping her toiletries and linens on the chair next to him. Ian’s eyes softened as they met hers, her presence obviously bringing him some small measure of comfort. “Ian,” she spoke softly, her emotions suddenly taking her by storm, “C’mere.” 

Ian allowed Teresa to cradle his head in her arms, wrapping his own long arms around her, as they both wept. Ian had become aware of T’s condition, as well as some of the details pertaining to his interaction with members of the AB that had caused it. “Mickey?” he mumbled, as the two remained interlocked in a tearful embrace. “I saw him,” she answered softly, adding, “He knows you love him.” 

“Wait!” Ian responded brightly, pulling away to look at Teresa hopefully, “Did he say that?!” Now Teresa felt terrible. Mickey had not woken up at all, since the surgery. In fact, he’d had two seizures, so his team of doctors had decided to induce a coma, in hopes that the drain they’d placed, together with blood pressure medication, would decrease the intracranial pressure and put an end to the seizures. 

“No...but he knows. Trust me,” Teresa replied with a convincing nod. “Is he talking at all?!” Ian asked pleadingly, his voice cracking, despite his marked efforts to regain his composure. Teresa swallowed in a futile attempt to wash away the growing lump in her throat. “Ian, he’s...he’s...not awake yet,” she offered in a soft, tentative voice. She watched as Ian’s eyes brimmed over with tears again. He made no attempt to hide his sadness, instead allowing it to completely overrun him, his body shaking as he sobbed openly. 

Teresa reached for him again, pulling him tightly to her, then whispering, “He knows because I told him. Ian, I held his hand and told him how much you love him and need him to get well.” Ian wailed until there was nothing left but a whimper, “I love him so fucking much! I don’t wanna live, if he…” 

“Ian, he’s gonna make it. I just know it,” Teresa assured him, though how she felt so certain about it, she didn’t understand, herself. “How do you know?” Ian asked, pulling back, once again, to see Teresa’s face. He needed to know he could believe her. “When I told him you loved him, I saw his eyelashes move...his eyelids...like he heard me. I know he heard me...and then I could have sworn that I felt his hand...like he was gripping mine a little bit...but...but maybe that part was my imagination…” Teresa trailed off, beginning to doubt herself as she told this story, which now sounded so implausible, even to her own ears. As a medical professional, she knew these occurrences could and should be explained away as arbitrary---coincidental, even. But something deep within her told her it was more than that. 

“I believe you,” Ian breathed, “I just have to.” “Good! Now you need to get some sleep!” Teresa ordered, making her best attempt at producing a genuine smile, in spite of her extreme exhaustion and melancholy. “Can’t,” Ian replied in frustration, “Been trying all night. Everytime I start to doze, I startle awake, feeling for him beside me. And he’s never there.”

“He will be,” Teresa promised, her voice steady and confident, as she reached for her purse, digging through it, then producing a small pill bottle, which she opened immediately. “Here,” she murmured, pressing a small white pill into Ian’s hand. “What’s this?” he asked, though he was already poised to pop it into his mouth. “Something to help you sleep for awhile,” she answered with a wink. 

Ian took the pill, reaching for his water on the side table. Teresa handed it to him, guiding the straw between his lips. “You gotta stay hydrated, too,” she warned sternly. “You need to be strong and healthy for your man,” she finished, an authentic smile coming easily this time, as she watched Ian finish his water, then sink his head into his pillow, his eyes falling shut almost immediately.


	23. Boiling Point

Petrov’s frustration level had reached its boiling point. It had been three days since he’d requested the transfer of T and Mickey to another facility, but in both cases, the doctors refused to sign off on lengthy ambulance rides to any of the hospitals he had suggested. 

Petrov had opted for locations that were a good distance away, in order to ensure their anonymity and, therefore, their safety. Mickey was still in an induced coma, the pressure in his brain, while decreased markedly, still too great to chance bringing him out of it. Teresa had explained to Petrov that the seizures he’d already had made his situation especially tenuous. 

As for T, though he was alert and appeared physically able to go, some of his blood work had come back a bit off, so his doctor decided to hold him there, pending a second panel of tests. Teresa was sick with worry, upon hearing the news, fearing the worst, that one or more of T’s organs weren’t functioning properly. Petrov had been consulting her with increasing frequency, regarding the potential hospital transfers of T, Mickey, and Ian’s relocation to another prison, as well.

Ian’s transfer was also being held up. Finding a prison with the necessary medical facilities to provide for his continued care, while also offering him the necessary additional protection, was proving to be difficult. Petrov’s latest idea was a small, minimum security institution in Peoria, where Ian would have access to medical care on an outpatient basis at a nearby clinic. Teresa had been instrumental in planting the seeds for a possible work release opportunity there for Ian, once he’d gotten the necessary rehab for his leg. Getting this done, however, was complicated, given the nature of his crime and the newness of his incarceration, a point that Petrov had driven home to her the first time they had discussed it.

Meanwhile, Ian had taken his own steps toward securing a solid future for himself and his love. Fiona had finally come to visit him, disclosing all that had been going on in her life, including a recent windfall that would afford her the opportunity to help Ian with some decent legal representation. She had originally thought the goal would be for Ian to appeal his conviction, but after hearing all that had happened to both he and Mickey, during their short stay at Stateville, she and Ian agreed that her resources would be best used to threaten a lawsuit against the prison, in hopes of getting some leverage. 

Ian had been planning something along those lines, ever since he learned of Mickey’s condition, following the horrendous abuse and indecent assault he had endured at the hands of that sadistic son-of-a-bitch, Burman. The fact that he, himself, had also been victimized by the same piece of shit, as well as a group of under-supervised inmates---Cartel members, to boot---would only serve to strengthen his legal position.

\----------------------------------

Teresa had just reported for her shift, when she got word that a civil attorney by the name of Clyde Fenton would be visiting Ian. Genuinely intrigued by this bit of news, and equally surprised by the fact that Ian had not shared a word about it with her, she immediately approached his room, which was now guarded, around the clock, by two C.O.s, one of which was always Chapman, by day, and Tyrone, by night. Beau was often assigned as the second C.O. on day shift, but was also being used occasionally to oversee the serving line in the chow hall. There had been quite a bit of conjecture about how four members of the AB had become so deathly ill, so quickly after being moved to Solitary, an area of the prison that was served its meals separate from the rest of the prison population. Consequently, the AB had been making some threats against the Russians in the kitchen. 

Teresa said a quick hello to Chapman and Beau, then knocked to announce her entry into Ian’s room. “Come in,” he called out, sounding the best he had, since Mickey’s departure. Ian had just finished penning a letter when Teresa walked in, and was stuffing it into an envelope. “Teresa!” he greeted her with a bright smile, his face and lips having finally deflated to somewhere close to their normal size, though his nose was still bandaged, his eyes ringed with blotches of varying hues of purple and yellow. 

“Good morning, Ian!” she beamed, mirroring his enthusiastic manner. She was genuinely thrilled to see him obviously feeling so much better, and couldn’t wait to hear the details surrounding his impending visit. “I need you to take this to Mickey!” he said with great excitement, as he handed her the envelope he had filled only moments before. “Okay…” she replied slowly, knowing full-well that Mickey was still unable to read anything, in his current condition, a fact of which she was also certain that Ian was aware. 

“But…” she began to add, Ian instantly interjecting, “Just...read it to him...okay?” Teresa nodded her head silently, giving Ian the chance to elaborate. After an awkward silence, Teresa began her fishing expedition, hoping to glean some small clue as to what had precipitated his upcoming meeting. 

“So...I hear you have a visitor coming today,” she probed. “Yeah, my sister got me an attorney. Gonna sue the fuck outta this shithole,” Ian responded gleefully, grinning ear to ear. “Really?” Teresa returned, shocked by this whole turn of events. “Yep!” he answered confidently. Teresa was really beginning to worry at this point, the possible ramifications of such an action bombarding her brain faster than she could even process them all. 

“Ian...I…” she stammered, unable to get a clear thought from her brain to her mouth quickly enough. “Teresa, I know what you’re gonna say. Petrov’s trying to get me somewhere good...blah, blah, blah...But this guy can get me OUT! And then, once we’re both free, I’m gonna marry Mickey! I’ll take care of him! He’ll get better! You’ll see!” Ian ranted, physically unable to contain his exuberance. 

Teresa took a deep breath, struggling to put her heartfelt concerns into words that Ian would consider, before taking what she believed was a dangerous leap into something that had a 50% probability of success, at best. “Ian,” she began, taking his hands into hers. “Do you trust me?” she asked earnestly. “Of course I do,” Ian answered, without hesitation. “Then...please hear me out,” she pleaded. “Okay,” Ian agreed, still smiling. 

“Look, Petrov is on your side. He’s doing all he can to help you, Mickey, and T,” Teresa began. “Is that why I’m still here, and they are still at Good Samaritan?” Ian quipped sardonically, his smile vanishing in an instant, replaced by an angry, resentful scowl. “Ian, things just aren’t always as easy as we think they should be. There’s a lot of red tape...But regardless, what I’m trying to tell you is, you don’t want to make an enemy of Petrov. He’s probably the only one with any power, who is looking out for your best interest. You know Ball is only in this to get all of you on the witness stand, so he can win his cases,” Teresa reasoned. 

“Yeah, and Petrov’s trying to cover his own ass!” Ian fired back, a nasty edge suddenly evident in his voice. “Alright, Ian. I’m gonna spell it out for you,” Teresa retorted, doing her best not to become angry, though Ian was frustrating her greatly. “Once Mickey gets his Compassionate Release, which will happen any day now, Petrov will have no further obligation to him. You wanna piss him off? Then Mickey will only have Ball to look out for him. And we both know…”

“Yeah, I get it. He only cares until Mickey testifies,” Ian admitted, adding, “But my attorney will represent us after that.” “Only for as long as you can afford to pay him. And how long do you think that will be, especially if you pass up this chance at work release? Like we have discussed, an opportunity like that could turn into a real job, and a pretty good one for an ex-con!” Teresa fumed, fighting to keep some semblance of composure, for the sake of their friendship. She knew she was on shaky ground with him, but she also understood how high the stakes were, and that Ian couldn’t afford to make the wrong decision. 

“I’m...I’m sorry,” Teresa whispered tearfully, reading the hurt on Ian’s face, after her last comment, “All I want is what you want...For you and Mickey to be together, safe and happy.” “I know,” Ian acknowledged, lowering his head in shame for having ever doubted the motivation and wisdom of Teresa’s advice, “And I promise I won’t rush into anything. But I owe it to Fiona to at least talk to the guy. I mean, she did pay him to come.” “I get it,” Teresa replied softly, “It’s just that I’ve been here for a long time, and I’ve seen a lotta shit go down.”

“I know you have...and I should believe you. It’s just hard to live in this reality…” Ian trailed off as his voice cracked, taking a moment to recenter himself, before continuing, ”...Feels good to think someone or something can make all this shit go away, and give me what I want...what me and Mickey both want...And I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s too much to ask, after all the shit we’ve been through.” 

Ian’s eyes began to fill up, the dose of reality Teresa had just given him, coupled with his recurring thoughts of Mickey and whether he’d ever be the same, taking the wind out of his sails. “Ian...don’t,” Teresa breathed, pulling him close for a comforting hug, then speaking in a suddenly optimistic tone, “I’ll tell you one thing this guy can probably help you with.” 

Ian pulled away, his eyebrows quirking up with interest. “See what you gotta do to get a Marriage License. I’m sure Mickey will have to recover first, but by then, he’ll have been released, and will no longer be a prisoner, so the law precluding you from getting married will no longer apply.”

Ian pondered her last statement momentarily, the full impact of it slowing washing over him. “Teresa!” Ian exclaimed, grabbing her and kissing her on the forehead, “You’re right! I’m gonna need that letter back...Gotta add something!” Teresa handed the envelope back to him, a delightful feeling of accomplishment lifting her spirits, as she watched Ian open it and grab his pen. Now she just had to pray that Mickey would get better.

________________________

Petrov paced furiously from one end of his office to the other, cursing under his breath. He had just met with Ball, only a few short hours after receiving a report from Good Samaritan that all three AB members who had been taken there within 24 hours of their contracting some type of intestinal bug, had died of organ failure. 

Ball had come to inform him that the DA’s office would be conducting an investigation into the suspicious nature of this rapid-onset illness that ultimately led to the demise of three prisoners, all of whom were being held, along with Adolf, who had also been sickened, in Solitary at the time. He requested interviews with all medical staff, as well as all inmates who had worked in the kitchen the day before the men had fallen ill. 

Petrov knew this investigation could be catastrophic for him, and for the Russian mobsters who staffed his kitchen. He needed to speak with Ivan again, and soon, but didn’t want anyone to know about it. He couldn’t afford to have his fingerprints on any of this. It was then that he hatched a scheme to have someone else do the talking for him, someone to whom he could make an offer too good to refuse. He had a few possibilities in mind, but was uncertain as to how he wanted to proceed. He needed to weigh his options---quickly.


	24. Game Changer

Teresa’s day had been long and exhausting, her work and visitation schedule having ratcheted up her coffee consumption to nearly a pot a day, followed by a Monster energy drink while en route to Good Samaritan. This had become her daily routine, Teresa fighting herself each day to wait until the drive to the hospital, before opening her Monster. She had just finished giving report to Erika and was headed for the elevator, when Erika received a call from Petrov, asking that Teresa stop to see him in his office, prior to leaving for the evening. 

Teresa sighed heavily in response to the request, which Erika had passed on, out of obligation, despite knowing Teresa’s reaction in advance. Teresa entered the elevator in perturbed silence, resigning herself to what she figured would be another lengthy discussion of medical facility options for Mickey and T. Of course, she wanted to be helpful in this regard. Nothing was more important to her than the continued safety and recovery of these two very special men. However, the more time that passed without any real progress in getting them transferred, the less value she found in spending her time talking with Petrov. 

“Teresa! Please come in,” Petrov called to her from the doorway between his office and the waiting area, since Karen had already left for the evening. Teresa proceeded, taking her usual seat in front of his desk. Petrov fiddled with some papers on his desk nervously, purposely avoiding eye contact, as he struggled with how to begin their conversation.

“What...what happened?!” Teresa demanded, her voice filled with terror, his eyes instinctively shifting upward to meet hers. “Oh...oh...It’s nothing like that,” he responded off-handedly, instantly putting her more at ease, but becoming more uncomfortable himself. “So...T and Mickey are…” Teresa stammered, seeking confirmation that Petrov’s response pertained to their conditions. “The same,” he said, finishing her sentence. 

Petrov shifted in his chair, cleared his throat, then finally began to speak, “I just need to...well...would you...would you...go for a drink with me?” Petrov was scared---really scared. Teresa had never seen him this way before, nor had he ever asked her to do anything with him outside of work. She had no idea how she should answer. After all, she needed to get to the hospital before it got much later, if she had any hope of talking to T. Plus, she had promised Ian she would read his letter to Mickey. If she didn’t get there by nine, she’d have one hell of a time even getting onto the unit.

“Sure,” she answered, rising from her chair and heading for the door, “But I’m going to visit at Good Samaritan, so I’ll just have a Coke.” Petrov flashed a phony, uncomfortable smile, as he strode up next to her, the two walking, side by side, out of the office.

As Teresa got into her car, her mind was abuzz, envisioning all of the possible scenarios that could present themselves, once she was out in public with her boss, presumably to talk about something serious. As she pulled up beside Petrov, who had turned into the lot of a small, nearby bar, called Dmitri’s, she could see that he was on his phone, so she decided to make a quick call, herself, to check on T and Mickey. She asked for T’s nurse first, but he was unavailable, so she spoke with Mickey’s instead. Nothing much had changed. He was still unconscious, but since the swelling in his brain was continuing to decrease, his doctor had decided to attempt reducing his sedation gradually. He was being closely monitored, in case he started to come around, but so far, he remained unconscious. 

She had been placed on hold for Michael, T’s nurse, when Petrov knocked on her window, startling her. She ended the call, resolving to check on T in person, and got out of the car. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Petrov spoke apologetically. “That was a call I had to take,” he said softly, offering no further explanation.

Petrov led Teresa into the bar, the bartender giving a quick nod of recognition and respect as he passed by, directing Teresa to a booth in the far corner. The place was dark and smoky, not the sort of establishment that Teresa would ever patronize of her own free will. And yet, here she was, sitting in this dank, shithole of a place with Petrov, for God knows what reason.

Teresa sat across from Petrov, looking for any clue in his expression that might give her an idea as to what the purpose of this little excursion could be. “Coke, right?” Petrov asked, before excusing himself to get their drinks. “Yes,” Teresa responded, somewhat rattled by Petrov’s increasingly odd manner. She watched as the bartender served him two consecutive shots, both of which he sucked down in single gulps, before preparing the drinks that he carried back to their table. 

“Thank you,” Teresa said graciously, taking a sip from her straw, then looking at Petrov expectantly. “So…” he began reluctantly, willing his first two drinks to take effect, in hopes that his hands would stop shaking. He took a gulp from his mixed drink, a vodka sour, then continued, “I need to ask you a favor, Teresa.” He paused, awaiting some type of permission for him to do so, Teresa casually nodding her assent. “And before I do, I want you to know…” he stopped, mid-sentence, downing the remainder of his drink, before continuing, “I’m willing to help you out, in return.” 

“Okay,” Teresa agreed verbally this time, hoping to hasten the process. She had just looked at the time on her phone, and was beginning to worry that she would miss out on her opportunity to see T, if she didn’t get on her way to Good Samaritan soon. “Teresa, I cannot stress to you enough, the sensitivity of this matter. It has to stay between you and me,” he said with deadly seriousness, a sense of foreboding descending upon their table. “Okay…” she repeated, unable to mask her fear and uncertainty.

“So I can trust you?” he asked, raising two fingers in the bartender’s direction, almost immediately after which another drink was delivered to the table. “Of course,” she answered as reassuringly as she could, under these most unusual circumstances. 

Finally, he looked as if he was going to divulge the nature of this mystery favor, when his phone buzzed, an incoming text distracting him momentarily. As he read the text, he seemed to become even more flustered. “I’ll get T and Mickey anywhere you want them to go for treatment,” he suddenly promised, out of the blue. 

“Okay…” she responded, her heart beginning to pound so hard, she could feel her pulse in her temples, her fingers, even in her stomach. She knew something disastrous was on the verge of going down, and that she was about to be asked to somehow play a significant role in diffusing whatever bomb was threatening to detonate. 

“Ball is launching an investigation into the deaths of the AB inmates from Solitary,” Petrov blurted out awkwardly. “He’s going to interview all medical staff…” he spewed on, Teresa interrupting, “And I’ll be completely honest. We have nothing to hide. We did our best to treat whatever…” Suddenly, Teresa’s mouth stopped moving, her voice trapped in her throat, which seemed to be closing quickly. 

She had realized that the issue wasn’t the infirmary’s treatment of the inmates, but rather what was being treated. The rapid onset of the illness, coupled with the severity of the damage to their systems, likely pointed to a severe and, most likely intentional, food poisoning.

Teresa’s eyes told Petrov, without need of words, that she understood the situation, which was a great relief to him since, despite being nearly four drinks deep, he could still feel his entire body quaking and had begun to feel nauseous. He had needed to unload this burden, to share it with someone, and he had found her.

“Breathe,” Teresa reminded herself, gasping for air. “Teresa...I have to know who, besides Ivan, may know anything about this. It is essential that, when they are interviewed, they disclose nothing, and if they are asked directly of any involvement, they must vehemently deny it. Any other type of response will put them, as well as the entire kitchen staff, in more danger than they already are, not to mention the ramifications it could have for me and the prison itself.” 

“So, what do you see my role as?” she asked bravely, adding, “Since you are going to help me in any way possible, I will do my best to do the same for you.” She knew that, since Petrov had all but admitted to having members of the AB intentionally poisoned, she could now extract pretty much anything she wanted from him, in exchange for her keeping that secret, and she wanted to verbalize her understanding of her impending superior position.

“Well,” Petrov started to answer, reading Teresa’s expectations, loud and clear, “Ivan has to handle his guys, but someone has to let Ivan know how to proceed...and it can’t be me.” Petrov twisted the ring on his finger nervously, awaiting a response from Teresa. She remained quiet, mulling the entire scenario over in her mind, smiling faintly as she thought of the many benefits she could likely extract from Petrov, presuming he didn’t end up in prison himself, before she could do it. 

“I don’t care how or when you do it, as long as you’re discreet and your message is clear,” he added impatiently, hoping to hear that Teresa understood, and would assume responsibility for the task. “I understand,” Teresa whispered with a nod, as she got up from the table, ending their conversation with, “I’m going to visit T and Mickey now. I’ll let you know where they will be going, first thing tomorrow,” before turning her back and exiting the bar.

____________________

Teresa fought her own conscience as she began to explore all of the possibilities that her new privileged position in Petrov’s cover-up would afford her. She wasn’t the type of person to capitalize on another person’s misfortune. That’s not who she was. She told herself, however, that she would only be doing it for the benefit of good people, who had been wronged for pretty much their entire lives. After all, she didn’t plan any personal gain, other than to see people, about whom she cared deeply, finally get a small sliver of what they actually deserved in life. 

Once she’d reconciled it in her mind, at least somewhat, she was able to walk into the CCU with a smile on her face. She made a move toward T’s room, only to be told that he was indisposed at the moment. “At least he’s awake,” she told herself, turning in the direction of Mickey’s room. 

As soon as she laid eyes on him, she could see that something was different. He seemed to have a subtle, almost pained expression on his face, whereas he had looked to be resting comfortably the last time she had seen him. He was on the verge of waking up. She could tell.

She hastened her gait as she approached his bed, pulling a chair up close, so she could read Ian’s letter to him as privately as possible. She had no idea what Ian had written, but she was sure he wouldn’t want it broadcast for all to hear, especially the C.O. that stood guard outside his door. As she sat down, she addressed Mickey, “Mickey? Can you hear me?” He made no audible response, but Teresa saw his eyelashes move, as though he may have been trying to open his eyes. 

Although his eyes remained closed, she decided to see if she could get him to attempt a blink on cue. “Can you blink for me, Mickey?” she asked. There was an approximately 30 second delay, then she saw his lashes press downward, as his eyelid squeezed shut more tightly. “You hear me, don’t you?” Teresa asked with excitement. After another roughly 30 second lull, it happened again. 

Now Teresa felt certain that Mickey could, in fact hear and understand her. This was incredibly encouraging! But she couldn’t stop there. Knowing the kinds of deficits victims of subarachnoid hemorrhage often suffered, she immediately began assessing him.

“Okay...One blink for yes, two for no...okay?” Teresa began, struggling to keep her voice calm and steady, for Mickey’s sake. 

Pause---Blink.

“Great! Do you know where you are?” she spoke slowly and deliberately.

Pause--Blink Blink.

“That’s entirely understandable,” Teresa thought to herself, as she prepared to ask her next question.

“Do you know who I am?”

Pause--Blink Blink.

“Okay, well, he can’t even see me,” Teresa reasoned to herself. Next question.

“Do you know what happened to you?” 

Pause--Blink Blink. 

Teresa started to wonder whether Mickey fully understood her.

“Do you understand these questions?”

Pause--Blink. 

Mickey’s single blink gave Teresa a renewed sense of urgency. She continued with a more specific line of questioning, “Do you remember riding in an ambulance?”

Pause--Blink Blink.

“How about in an elevator?”

“Pause--Blink Blink.

“Do you remember Mr. Ball?”

Pause--Blink Blink.

“How about Ian?”

Pause--Blink.

“Yes, of course you do! You know Ian loves you, right?

Pause--Blink.

Teresa’s heart swelled with happiness! Mickey remembered Ian! The rest would fall into place.

“Would you like me to read you a letter from Ian?” she asked, already having removed the letter from her purse.

Pause--Blink.

There was a short lull in Teresa’s speech, as she tore anxiously at the envelope. Mickey’s facial expression seemed to change slightly, to one of physical discomfort, mixed with agitation. Perhaps in anticipation of hearing Ian’s words.

“Dear Mickey,” she began, Mickey’s face seeming to relax almost instantly.

I’m so sorry I can’t be there with you right now. I’m the one who should be taking care of you, but I’m stuck here without you. I miss you so fucking much! 

I want you to know that I’m feeling physically better, every day that passes, and that I hope you are, too. As for the situation here, it sucks. Fortunately, you won’t have to come back here, since they’re going to let you out. Mickey, you’re going to be free! 

Fiona got us a good lawyer, so I’m hoping to get out of here myself soon, but as you know, these things take time.

The Warden is planning to send me to a safer place to finish my sentence. I don’t know if you’ll be able to…” Teresa stopped, not wanting to share the next line of the letter, since she thought it might upset Mickey.

Mickey began blinking his eyes, over and over, silently imploring Teresa to continue with the letter. If she’d had any doubt whatsoever as to Mickey’s level of awareness, he had put that completely to rest with this frantic display. 

Teresa had thought about reading the letter in advance, in order to guard against just this type of situation, but somehow, she felt it would be an invasion of their privacy for her to be privy to Ian’s words before Mickey was. 

She reluctantly continued, still concerned with the impact the next line could have on Mickey. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to visit me, but I’m planning to make my testimony against Burman conditional on my release. Until then, I hope you will accept my calls, and that you’ll wait for me. Mickey, I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t wait for you when you were in the last time. I hope you can forgive me. I really fucked up, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life making it up to you!

I’m counting the days until you’re in my arms again. 

I love you,

Ian

Teresa glanced up from the page, just in time to see a single tear trailing down the side of Mickey’s face and landing on his pillow.

“Wait! There’s more!” she continued, hoping to settle him, before he came completely undone. 

P.S. This lawyer can hopefully get us married soon, since you’re going to be a free man. You have to wake up, so you can tell someone you want to marry me. That is, if you still do. Mickey, please get well. You mean everything to me!  
_______________

Now there was no stopping the steady stream of tears the leaked from both of Mickey’s eyes. And the look on his face had become one of pure agony.

“Are you in pain?” Teresa asked, concerned. 

Pause--Blink.

Teresa felt as though she’d been kicked in the gut. Now her heart hurt. Mickey was in pain, but couldn’t tell anyone what, specifically, was bothering him. 

“Do you have a headache?”

Pause. Blink.

“Okay, I don’t know if you can have pain medication right now, but I’ll find out,” Teresa responded, getting up from her chair to look for Mickey’s nurse. 

Again, Mickey began blinking, rapid-fire. “You want me to tell Ian that you love him and want to get married, don’t you?” Teresa guessed, feeling as though his thoughts were bleeding into her brain. 

Pause. Blink.

“I will, Mickey. I promise. But right now, I need to let your doctor know that you are able to communicate, and that you’re in pain,” Teresa said, gripping his hand in hers as she spoke. 

As Teresa exited Mickey’s room, bound for the nurse’s station to speak with someone about pain medication for Mickey, Michael, T’s nurse stopped her, “Ms. Lewis, T has had some complications and is heading for surgery momentarily. I thought you might want to see him.”

“Of course, I do, “she responded, following Michael into T’s room. “But before I do, I need to say two things. Number one, Mikhailo Milkovich, Room 29, is able to communicate non-verbally by blinking, and is in pain. Number two, I would like to arrange for both T and Mickey to be transferred to the Mayo Clinic, once T comes through his surgery. Would you please arrange for the necessary paperwork? T will sign prior to surgery, once I speak with him,” Teresa spoke authoritatively. 

“I don’t think you understand the urgency of this surgery. The paperwork with take some time to prepare---time he doesn’t have,” Michael responded. “Just get me a blank Medical Power of Attorney. I’ll handle the rest,” Teresa demanded, her wavering voice escaping through trembling lips, as she rushed into T’s room. 

“T!” she exclaimed, startling him a bit, his eyes softening as he caught sight of her. “Please sign a Medical Power of Attorney for me. I have a way to get you to the Mayo Clinic, where you’ll be safe and will receive the best care this country has to offer.”

“Wh--what?” he asked, perplexed by her unusual request. “T,” she whispered, her lips just inches from his ear, “I’m worried about you here. Understand?” T acknowledged her with a slight nod. 

“Do you trust me?” she continued. “Of course,” he breathed faintly. “Then...will you please sign?” she pleaded with him, her tear-soaked cheeks glistening under the bright, fluorescent lighting. “Yes,” he answered, reaching up to wipe her tears away with his thumbs. 

Just then, Michael returned with the Power of Attorney. Teresa quickly filled in the necessary blanks, then watched as T signed and Michael witnessed, the orderlies preparing to wheel him away. “I’ll see you soon,” Teresa breathed, kissing T’s forehead lightly. 

Teresa reached for her phone, as she followed T’s gurney out into the hallway, watching it disappear into the elevator. She searched her Contacts for her newest one, Petrov, and hit ‘send’. Petrov answered on the first ring, “What is it, Teresa?” “T is in surgery. When he gets out, he and Mickey need to be on a helicopter, bound for the Mayo Clinic. Make it happen.”


	25. Change Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO) is a U.S. federal statute which provides criminal penalties and civil action for any act performed as a part of an ongoing criminal organization.

Teresa had shown up early for her shift again, after spending most of the night awaiting the outcome of T’s surgery, in hopes that she might be able to see him off afterward. She wanted him out of Good Samaritan and under the care of the best, safe from the myriad dangers that could present themselves at any moment in his current situation. She wanted the same for Mickey, and had researched specifically which facilities offered the best care for patients, following subarachnoid hemorrhage, settling on the Mayo Clinic, since it was closer than Johns Hopkins. She had no idea how or if Petrov would actually pull it off, but she planned to drag her feet on the favor he’d asked until she got her way. She hadn’t heard back from him, since making her demand the night before, so she resolved not to make any moves until after they spoke again.

Teresa slipped onto the ward and collected a clean set of scrubs from the nurses’ station, completely undetected by Erika, who, as Teresa discovered, upon approaching Ian’s room, had been having some in depth communication of the non-verbal variety with Tyrone. The entire infirmary was completely silent, save for the soft moans and murmurs that came from the entryway outside Ian’s door. Teresa waited politely while they finished, the sounds of their heated interaction taking her back to the day she and T had been so inspired to impromptu action by those of Ian and Mickey. 

How she wished she could go back and retool that day. She would have kept T and Ian upstairs until after curfew, would have fucked the hell out of T in the office, would have invented a reason to admit Ian, one that didn’t involve him being beaten to a pulp by the Cartel, and would have asked Ian about the highlighted inmate number. Damn! If only she could rewrite history!

“What’s done is done,” she told herself in a sorry attempt at relieving her self-blame and regret, “But it won’t happen again!” She wasn’t going to let her morals, prison protocol or her own fear stop her from going with her gut---ever again. She had decided this the moment she found out that T’s life was, once again, in danger. 

The one bright spot she anticipated for her morning was the look she would see on Ian’s face when she shared about her experience with Mickey. She could hardly contain her excitement, as she neared his door, following a brief and slightly awkward conversation with Erika. Teresa tried to keep things short, pretending not to have noticed what was going on, but Erika could tell by the way Teresa was acting, that she’d gotten an ear-full, at the very least. Teresa had planned to beg off from report, wanting to get showered, then share her good news with Ian, but as it turned out, it was Erika who asked for a reprieve, wanting, herself, to shower before going home to her kids.

Teresa snuck into Ian’s room, showered in his bathroom, then tiptoed out slowly, not wanting to disturb him if he was still asleep. “Teresa?!” Ian called out, upon seeing her, “How is he?” She knew he meant Mickey. And she couldn’t blame him for not asking about T. After all, the last Ian knew, T was fairly stable. Besides, Mickey was his everything and still in a coma. “Well,” Teresa began, a giant smile spreading across her face, despite all of the other shit that was on her mind, “I read him the letter…” “And?!” Ian demanded impatiently. “And he was able to tell me by sort of blinking, even though his eyes were closed, that he remembers you, loves you and wants to marry you!” 

“Thank Shim!” Ian breathed, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m gonna marry him...very soon!” he exclaimed, continuing, “Fenton says he can get a marriage request pushed through pretty quickly.” “But Ian, Mickey is...he’s...I...I told Petrov I wanted him transferred to the Mayo Clinic.” Ian sighed in despair, shaking his head. 

“Ian, he’s just not safe at Good Samaritan, long term. Besides, they botched T’s surgery. He just had another one last night. And...and they would never have known that Mickey could communicate, had it not been for me. Ian, they should be evaluating his level of consciousness on a regular basis, especially when they are bringing him out of the seda...”

“Wait!” Ian interrupted. “They’re bringing him out of the coma?!” he questioned, so excited that he nearly jumped out of his bed, despite his injuries. “Yes, they began lessening his sedation gradually yesterday. I could tell he was starting to come out of it, by the look on his face,” she answered, taking Ian’s hand in hers. 

“You mean he looked happy?” Ian asked hopefully. “Actually, he has a headache, which is to be expected, under the circumstances, so he didn’t necessarily look happy, except for when I first started to read your letter. Ian, he loves you so much! Of that, I am certain!” Teresa replied, watching Ian’s face brighten, then become incredibly sad a moment later. 

They sat in silence for a moment. Ian was starting to crack. Just thinking about Mickey alone in a hospital bed, unable to communicate his thoughts---how he was feeling, what he needed---really started to hit him hard. Teresa could feel his hand trembling in hers. She could see his eyes tearing up, his face reflecting a profound sadness, his lower lip beginning to quiver.

“Ian, there’s more,” Teresa piped up, making another stride toward following her gut. Ian stared at her expectantly, a look of forlorn desperation in his shimmering green eyes. “But you can’t breathe a word to a soul...no matter what!” she whispered, so softly that Ian had to turn his ear toward her to hear. “Petrov has a situation. He needs me to pass a message to Ivan in the kitchen. And he’s gonna help me out, in return. That’s why I was able to ask for Mickey and T to go to the Mayo Clinic.” 

“Teresa, he can’t go! Fenton says Mickey should be getting his Compassionate Release any day now. He talked to Ball! So we will be married soon...Fenton can have the whole process expedited, since Mick’s sick! You can’t just move him away from me! I won’t be able to go that far!” Ian yelled, tears pouring from his eyes, faster than Teresa could wipe them away. “Ian!” We’ll figure it out. Right now, his health and safety have to come first, wouldn’t you agree?” she reasoned. Ian nodded in acknowledgement, though the thought of Mickey leaving the State of Illinois before becoming his husband was absolutely killing him. 

“Teresa, I need to know what’s happening. Is he going? If so, when? Is he going as a prisoner or as a free man? Once he is released, I want to get married, first thing. I don’t care if he has to blink to say ‘I do’. I want to be his forever, no matter what happens to either of us!” Ian whined impatiently.

“I know that, Ian. He wants that, too. I’ll let you know everything as soon as I find out,” Teresa promised, squeezing his hand one last time before she stood to leave.  
____________________________

“So you think you can get rid of me by getting the Feds involved, huh?” Ball spat in Petrov’s direction as he entered his office, unannounced. Karen had left her desk to fax a copy of Mickey’s Compassionate Release Order to Good Samaritan, then had been told, upon making a call to ensure the right people received it, that Mickey was no longer a patient there. She was on her way back to Petrov’s office to tell him, when she overheard the exchange between the two men. 

“You think I had anything to do with this?!” Petrov fired back, annoyed. “The LAST thing I want is a bunch of Feds nosing around this place. Not that I have anything to hide, personally, but who knows what kind of bullshit these inmates might say?” he retorted convincingly.

“So, you’re going to tell me that the Feds just swooped in, in the middle of the night, and whisked Milkovich and McKenna away to keep them safe, just in case they can build a RICO case against Chico? Come the fuck on!” Ball scoffed. 

“Eillis, I don’t know what I can tell you, except that I’ve been cooperative with every investigation you’ve ever done here, and that I have always conducted prison business with only the scales and justice and the welfare of this institution, along the people in it, in mind. I’ve been every bit as blindsided by all of this as you have,” Petrov contended, focusing on his tone, in order to maintain his facade of respect. 

Petrov didn’t think much of Ball, in general, and now that he was choosing to investigate the deaths of four sadistic AB members, amid all of the other bullshit that had ensued, his opinion of him was at an all-time low. After all, these AB fucks had just perpetrated the attempted murder of T, a key witness against Burman, in order to protect an organized prostitution ring that he, himself, had been trying to thwart since his arrival. Ball should have been focusing on the activities of the AB, along with the Cartel’s recent attack on Ian and their earlier attempted murder of Mickey, things that could make a real difference in the overall climate at Stateville.

Ball glared at him dubiously, then turned away, striding toward the door in silence. Petrov remained in his chair, listening closely for Ball’s departure. He heard Karen, who had returned to her desk, bidding him a cursory farewell, followed by the loud click of the door closing behind Ball. Petrov approached the front office caustously, peering around the corner to be sure Ball had gone, then took a small flip phone from his pocket and made a call. “That was quick,” he mumbled into the phone, adding, “Still got some loose ends here, if you can put a hold on...Yeah, yeah...I understand.” Petrov ended the call abruptly, an uncomfortable grimace on his face.

“What happened?” Karen asked in a concerned voice, having initially entered his office to ask about Mickey’s status, and fhe inmate marriage request she had just received. “There’s an issue in the chow hall! It’s urgent! Please call the infirmary. Tell Teresa I’ll send her an escort, then send one. She needs to get there quickly.” Petrov barked. “Do you have any specific instructions for her?” Karen asked. “No, when she gets there, she’ll know what to do,” he responded cryptically.

___________________________________

Mickey began to struggle against his restraints, muttering gibberish under his breath. “What did you say, sir?” the flight nurse asked kindly. Mickey’s eyes flew open suddenly, filled with terror. “Where...where the fuck am I?!” “We are on our way to Baltimore...Johns Hopkins,” the nurse answered calmly, hoping to diffuse Mickey’s panic. “What?! Where’s Ian? What...da fuck? You said...said I’d be with him!” Mickey’s face turned beet red, as he continued to fight with ferocity against his terrycloth encumberments, which had begun to rub brush burns onto his wrists. “I’m sorry sir, but I’m going to have to sedate you...for your own safety,” the nurse spoke soothingly as she added a sedative to his IV. “Ian…” Mickey mouthed slowly as his body succumbed to the drug, his fists relaxing and falling to the gurney.


	26. G-Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone! Hope you are all enjoying time with your families. For me, this story has been playing inside my head, poking and prodding me to let it out. So here's another chapter. There will be a slight time lapse for the characters between this and next chapter, to move things along a bit. I am hoping to get the next one out before New Years. 
> 
> Thank you for your loyal readership! Comments welcome and encouraged, as always!

Upon her arrival to the chow hall, Teresa, along with her escort, who ended up being Beau, scanned the tables, looking for any injured inmates. There were none. She proceeded to the chow line, once again searching for blood or any other obvious health problems. Nothing. She reluctantly stepped behind the kitchen line, Beau following closely after her, stifling a slew of miscellaneous catcalls and sexually-charged comments with the wave of his baton in close proximity to some offenders’ heads. 

Everything also looked to be in perfect order behind the line, so Teresa asked to speak with Ivan privately, attempting to dismiss Beau as she entered the kitchen office, where Ivan was sitting. Beau refused, citing to his concern for her safety, but was quickly convinced otherwise, once the Warden called for him to report to his office immediately. He was further instructed to pull the on-duty C.O. to stand guard outside the office door, while also keeping an eye on the line and the dining area. This was a tall order for any C.O., but Beau obediently passed the instructions along, before heading nervously for Petrov’s office. 

“Ivan?” Teresa asked tentatively, as she closed the door behind her, a ballsy move, even for her. “Yes. What can I do for you?” Ivan asked, his accent, thick, his manner, polite. “I was sent here to tell you to keep the AB meal plan quiet at all costs, no matter who asks,” Teresa said in a monotone voice, pretending not to know the full meaning behind what she was saying. Somehow it just felt better that way. “This should also be made clear to any of your guys who were involved or were aware,” she added softly.

“Okay, fine,” Ivan responded, then inquiring, “Why is this being told to me now? Can I ask?” Teresa took a deep breath, considering how best to put this, without feeling as though she was admitting involvement in a cover-up. “There will be an investigation here. The Warden wanted you to be aware,” Teresa answered timidly, hoping she’d said enough. She most certainly didn’t want to say anything more. 

“You can tell him that only I…” Ivan stopped mid-sentence, after Teresa nodded her understanding and turned for the door. “Got it. I’ll let him know. And if anyone asks, I was here to share some test results with you,” she said in a low voice as she exited the office, immediately speaking to the C.O. who had been standing guard. “I need to get back to the infirmary ASAP. Can you please get Beau down here?”

“He went to see the Warden,” the C.O. replied, behaving as though she should have known this already, “Someone else will be here to escort you soon.” Teresa accompanied the young C.O. back out to his post between the line and the dining area, keeping her head down, so as to avoid eye contact with any of the inmates who she knew were currently eyeing her up. She was in a very uncomfortable position, to say the least, and her lack of knowledge concerning the condition and whereabouts of T and Mickey only made matters worse. 

After nearly fifteen minutes of tense waiting, amid blatant whistling, hooting, hollering and downright crude comments, another young C.O. arrived to escort her. As it turned out, she was being led to the Warden’s office, which came as a shock to her. She couldn’t understand why, after all of the secrecy of their meeting the night before, Petrov would have her visit his office during her shift. The C.O. dropped her just inside the outer door, then turned for the elevator, a highly unusual move, since it was protocol for a C.O. to be present and wait for any visitor from the inside. Teresa chalked it up to their being short-staffed, but couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling she’d gotten, upon being summoned.

“Teresa, please come in,” Petrov called from the entryway between his office and the front lobby. Teresa approached apprehensively, wondering if Ball or one of his colleagues from the D.A.’s Office had come already to interview her. She was somewhat relieved to see that no one but Petrov was in the office, although now she worried that there was a problem, either involving the kitchen situation or worse, T and Mickey. 

“Ms. Lewis,” Petrov began, with an obviously put-on air of formality that, under any other circumstances, would have made Teresa chuckle, “You will need to prepare Mikhailo Milkovich’s medical records to be sent to Johns Hopkins University Hospital, with copies to the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Washington D.C.” Teresa nearly fell over. T and Mickey were either at, or on their way to Johns Hopkins! And the Feds were involved! This was some crazy shit! She had dozens of questions to ask, but given Petrov’s unusually stiff manner, almost as if he feared he was being watched or listened to, she kept them all to herself, acknowledging his instructions and waiting for more. 

Petrov continued, speaking more rapidly, as if he were running out of time. “Please also include his Compassionate Release Order, which you can get from Karen on your way out. And make all medical staff aware that this institution no longer has any jurisdiction or responsibility for said individual. Any future inquiries regarding his health or whereabouts should be directed to the U.S. Attorney’s office.”

Teresa wanted to ask how all of this had come to pass, and whether T had been included in this deal, but she was genuinely afraid, given Petrov’s oddly official demeanor. Was someone really watching? Listening? The Cartel case must have been taken over by the Feds, which made sense, given the nature and far-reaching extent of the Cartel’s dealings, but the timing of it all seemed too much of a coincidence. How could this have come about so abruptly, and at precisely the time when Teresa had demanded that Mickey and T be moved? And what of Ball’s investigation of the AB deaths? This was all just too much for Teresa to digest, to begin to understand without Petrov filling in some serious blanks.

“Okay,” she answered, then asking, “Does Karen have the contact information for the U.S. Attorney?” Petrov nodded, then said, “I’ll get you the other info as soon as possible.” Teresa nodded back, understanding that Petrov intended to communicate with her again in the near future, but probably not from his office. 

Teresa was standing at Karen’s desk, waiting for a copy of Mickey’s Compassionate Release Order, when three federal agents brushed past her, headed for Petrov’s office. She watched as they entered, unannounced, seeming to her as if they had been there before, judging by Karen’s guarded stance and failure to attempt to stop them, pending the announcement of their presence. Teresa quickly collected Mickey’s Order, then noticed Ian’s Marriage License Request sitting on Karen’s desk. She lifted it so Karen could see what she was looking at, immediately noticing Petrov’s notarized signature, dated for the previous day, just as the Compassionate Release Order had been. When she attempted to take it with her, Karen put her hand on top of it and shook her head, quickly stashing the document in the bottom drawer of her desk. 

Teresa was completely baffled by this entire turn of events and pondered how, or if, to broach the subject with Ian as she rode the elevator up to the infirmary. And what of T’s status? She was dying to know whether he had gone to Johns Hopkins along with Mickey. She decided to put a call in to Michael at the Good Samaritan CCU to ask. “Ms. Lewis, Mr. McKenna is no longer a patient here,” Michael responded flatly. “Where has he been transferred?” Teresa asked, wondering why he hadn’t volunteered the information. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t been given any further information,” was his shocking response. 

Teresa thanked him absently, ending the call, the thought that both T and Mickey might be bound for Witness Protection crossing her mind. She dismissed that terrifying possibility for the moment, refocusing her attentions on the gathering of Mickey’s records for Johns Hopkins and an Assistant U.S. Attorney, named Randy Carl. Though the entire process shouldn’t have taken more than a few minutes, she almost hated to finish, because she knew she would then be faced with having a very difficult conversation with Ian. She had promised to let him know as soon as she had any information, but now she wished she hadn’t. 

Once she had finished reviewing all of Mickey’s records, taking her time to be sure all of their ‘I’s’ were dotted and ‘T’s’ crossed, she paged back up to his ‘Inmate Info’ page, noticing the unusually blank ‘Next of Kin’ section. Mickey had no one? She knew that couldn’t be true. Certainly, he had family somewhere. True enough, she had encountered cases where an inmate would choose to leave that question blank, for fear that a family association might do more harm than good, either to themselves or their family, but the thought of Mickey going through life, possibly with diminished mental capabilities, separated from everyone and everything he had ever known, made her sick to her stomach.

“Go with your gut,” she told herself, as she typed, “Ian Gallagher” into the ‘Next of Kin’ space, and “Fiance,” in the ‘Relationship’ space. Print. She would keep a hard copy for her own personal records, in addition to the e-mailed version that would remain electronically at the prison. Once she had attached and sent all of the records, along with Mickey's Compassionate Release Order, to Johns Hopkins, as well as to Mr. Randy Carl, U.S. Attorney, she began rehearsing how she would break all of this to Ian. There really was no easy way to do it, and she knew he was going to go completely ballistic, especially if she told him about the signed Marriage License Request that lay useless in a random drawer in Karen’s desk. The addition of his name to Mickey’s records as Next of Kin was a long-shot, in terms of getting him access to someone in Witness Protection, but she had to as least try.

________________________________

“Bring them in this way,” a uniformed guard barked at the flight nurse and the U.S. Marshall that accompanied her, as they approached the entrance to the underground transport tunnels at Johns Hopkins. “In here,” he continued to direct them, as two orderlies joined them, assisting in the steering of the gurneys. T’s eyes opened, just as he was being wheeled into a dimly lit room, none of the people around him looking familiar. “Where am I?” he asked, completely disoriented and beginning to panic. “Relax, sir,” the flight nurse spoke in her usual, soothing tone, “You’ll be briefed shortly.” “Briefed?!” he repeated, catching sight of Mickey’s gurney, as it was pushed up beside his. “Who’s that?” he asked. “You know him as Mikhailo Milkovich,” the U.S. Marshall responded. 

________________________________

Teresa had just hit the ‘send’ button and was contemplating how to share the latest, most disturbing news she had learned, when the elevator door opened, two unaccompanied U.S. Marshalls and a young paramedic exiting. “Ian Gallagher,” one of the two U.S. Marshalls spoke with authority, flashing his badge. Teresa’s entire body began shaking uncontrollably, to the point that she feared she couldn’t take a step from behind the nurse’s station without faltering. “Beau!” she called out, Beau approaching in seconds flat. “Would you please direct these gentlemen to Gallagher’s room?” She hated herself for not going with them, but she was far too nervous. She also knew she needed to prepare Ian’s records, since he was obviously about to be taken somewhere as well. Besides, she really didn’t want to be associated with anything that was about to happen anyway. 

She pulled up Ian’s chart, jumping to the ‘Next of Kin’ section, which included the names of five siblings. She quickly moved the cursor to the beginning of the list, adding, “Mikhailo Milkovich”, then moved to the ‘Relationship’ section, adding, “Fiance”, after which she sat frozen, her body trembling, almost convulsing, as she awaited the next round of craziness that was about to ensue.


	27. Star-Crossed Lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All! Hope you are enjoying this wild ride! Lots of legal jargon in this chapter. If you need clarification, please see my response to Erikutta's comment at the end of the chapter. 
> 
> Thank you to Erikutta for the questions. It is important to me that readers understand what is going on, but sometimes I am afraid that too much explanation in the text of a chapter may turn people off. I am always more than happy to answer questions and provide explanations, warnings, etc., so please, just ask:)
> 
> Thanks again for reading!

Approximately three weeks had passed since the Feds descended upon Stateville Prison, having opened a RICO investigation on the Cartel, pertaining to information received from Mickey concerning the involvement of Chico Sanchez, among others, in an international drug trafficking and racketeering enterprise, as well as the resultant attempts on the lives of both Mickey and Ian by Cartel members housed there.

A second RICO investigation was opened on several members of the Aryan Brotherhood. This case emanated from information the Feds had gleaned from D.A. Ball, after his investigation of kitchen staff and their activities surrounding the deaths of AB members was halted, deemed to be a witch hunt instigated by the AB. 

Ball agreed to cooperate with the investigation, in exchange for immunity in the AB RICO case, amid allegations that he had failed to investigate countless cases of sexual abuse and involuntary prostitution of prisoners by C.O.s and AB members, despite repeated requests by Petrov and the warden who preceded him. Beau and Chapman had turned State’s Evidence after being offered more lucrative and lofty positions in Federal Prisons. Both had been threatened and harrassed by AB members for their role in impeding EMS access to Adolf, after Ian had stabbed him in self-defense. 

Teresa remained one of the only recognizable employees, following the mass exodus that resulted as the investigations intensified. More than 70% of Stateville’s staff had either up and quit, turned State’s Evidence and been relocated, requested a transfer, or been asked to resign in order to avoid investigation that could lead to their personal prosecution. Needless to say, the place was literally falling down around Petrov’s ears, despite his obvious connections to someone in the upper echelon of the U.S. Attorney’s Office. There had simply been too much corruption, an abundance of which predated Petrov’s employ, and had proven to be beyond his ability to rectify, thus far.

That being said, he refused to give up, looking to the small cadre of loyal employees who had stuck by him, for support. Among them, Teresa had been one he had asked---no, begged---to remain at Stateville. Her medical expertise, combined with her knowledge of the system, made her essential to maintaining the last shred of stability at the place. Karen had also stuck it out, thus far, the two having become quite close, over the course of the investigations. Both had managed to stay a step ahead of the Feds, when it came to ensuring the correctness and completeness of all relevant documentation. And for this, Petrov was eternally grateful. 

So much so, in fact, that he had paid for both flights Teresa had made to the D.C. area, where she had gone to visit T, who was convalescing at a federally-owned nursing facility, awaiting a settlement offer from the State of Illinois Prison System for damages suffered on the job, as well as a date for his upcoming testimony in the Burman case, pertaining to the allegations that the AB ran a prison prostitution and sex abuse ring. He was considered to be an invaluable witness, due to his own extensive injuries, which he suffered as a result of his decision to voluntarily collect evidence against Burman and the AB. 

T had been advised against contacting anyone from Stateville, but had opted, nonetheless, to call Teresa. He honestly credited her and Erika with saving his life, and was more than anxious to tell her so. They talked for hours, T sharing just about everything that had gone on in his life since being flown to Johns Hopkins. Needless to say, T was considering a new vocation, pending his recovery. Teresa, too, was thinking about a change, particularly once T would be released from nursing care. She had, in fact, asked for a recommendation from Petrov to work at the facility where T was staying, but that was when Petrov pleaded with her to stay at Stateville, offering to get her to D.C. for frequent visits, and even to pay for her lodging. 

While in the D.C. area, Teresa had hoped to also see Mickey, but she was told that no such patient existed, upon inquiring about him at Johns Hopkins. She knew he had been there; T had shared that in their first conversation. And yet, she was now being told otherwise, which made her all but certain that he was in, or about to be in Witness Protection. 

Teresa had avoided contacting Ian, once she had spoken with Johns Hopkins, fearing that kind of news might just break him. She hadn’t spoken with Ian since the night before everything had gone down. The Feds had literally whisked him away in the blink of an eye, refusing to allow her so much as a goodbye, and warning her not to make any future contact with him, for both of their safety’s sake. 

It wasn’t until a week after they took Ian, that she found out he was at FCI in Peoria, as had been discussed previously. As a potential witness in two RICO cases, he was closely guarded, and had next to no personal freedom or privacy, which had begun to eat at him. He had asked repeatedly about Mickey’s whereabouts and status, only to be told that no one there knew anything about him. He had finally decided to try sending a letter to Mickey at the Mayo Clinic, where Teresa had asked that he and T be flown, only to have the letter sent back to him, marked, “Return to sender. No such patient”.

Over the course of three weeks, Ian had become so distraught that he had stopped eating, began refusing his meds and, most recently, wouldn’t even get out of bed. There had been talk of a psych consult when these behaviors first started, but now they had escalated to the point that something HAD to be done, and fast. 

______________________________

Mickey was being seen for the third time by staff psychiatrist, Dr. Debra Lange. His brain had healed to the point that his neurologist had evaluated its function, based on scans and bloodwork, and found it to be within normal limits. And yet, he was not progressing as expected. Daily reports from the nursing staff described him as being, “essentially non-communicative, except for his incessant wailing for Ian, which had begun to fall on deaf ears, after several attempts to question him as to who and where Ian was. He screamed the same answers each and every time he was asked, “My fucking fiance!” and “...the fuck should I know what you shitheads did with him?” At times, Mickey became so rageful that he had to be sedated, his maniacal demands that they honor their promise and bring Ian to him, coupled with his violent physical overtures, escalating to the point that hospital staff felt truly threatened.

In hopes of figuring out who and where Ian was, the staff had checked Mickey’s records from Good Samaritan. His next of kin was listed simply as, “Stateville Prison”, which, now that he was a free man, had no bearing on anything. He was essentially viewed as an adult orphan, someone who, barring a miraculous recovery, could easily become the permanent responsibility of the State, once again. The fact that the Feds had brought this man to them in order to make him well enough to testify in a high-profile trial only made matters worse. Putting pressure on any patient, under these circumstances, was certainly not going to make him get well faster. In fact, if anything, making demands in this situation could slow or completely halt any forward progress. 

“Listen,” the psychiatrist, Dr. Lange began in frustration, as she addressed the latest round of questions from the pushy federal agent, Thomas Camden, who had been assigned to keep tabs on Mickey’s condition, “Unless you can get me some information on who and where this ‘Ian Galagher’ is, I don’t think we have any hope of getting very far. One element of successful treatment, which this man is sorely missing, is a support system. And according to his records from Good Samaritan, he has no one!” 

“Well, he’s a criminal. Lots of criminals have no one!” Agent Camden fired back judgmentally. “But I think this one has someone,” she countered, smiling kindly at Mickey as she loosened his gown to expose the tattoo on his chest. “Yeah, look at that thing. Definitely a DIY prison tattoo. This Ian Galagher is probably some scumbag con who professed his love, just to get a little on the inside, ya know?” Camden retorted with a wink. 

“Well, I want his records from Stateville,” she insisted, obviously incensed by Camden’s flirtatious, yet condescending manner. Camden begrudgingly accessed his file on Mickey, using his encrypted iPad. “Says his Stateville records were sent here, and to U.S. Attorney Carl’s office,” Camden read, shooting Dr. Lange a look that suggested she had wasted his time, having him look for something she had access to, all along. “They were sent here? To Johns Hopkins?” Dr. Lange asked, for clarification. Camden nodded, rolling his eyes, after which Dr. Lange excused herself, making her way quickly to the nurse’s station. 

Minutes later, she returned, a printed version of Mickey’s records in hand, the expression on her face, one of shocked surprise, as she motioned for Camden to step out into the hall. “Says here that Mikhailo has a fiance, named Ian Gallagher, currently incarcerated at Stateville,” she read to Camden quietly, but with an edge in her voice and a ‘told ya so’ look on her face. “How did you not know this?” she demanded, making a move toward Mickey’s door to show him his own records.

“Look,” Camden began, reaching for her arm and effectively stopping her in her tracks, “You said yourself, Good Samaritan had no record of this. I’m telling you, looking for this guy might do more harm than good. These guys will promise someone like this the world on the inside, just to get a piece. What if you have to turn around and tell this guy that the whole engagement thing was some bullshit, just so this Ian could get his rocks off in prison? Then what? Think we’ll have a chance in hell of getting this guy to cooperate and testify then?” 

Dr. Lange stared down at Camden’s hand, which still gripped her elbow, then shook herself free with disdain. “Just see what you can find out about him, please. If he’s at Stateville, we need to set up a time for a phone call,” Dr. Lange spoke authoritatively. “But I really think…” Camden began, Dr. Lange cutting him off with an icy glare, “With all due respect, Agent Camden, I really don’t care what you think. Just get me the information ASAP, if you want to have any hope of getting Mikhailo’s help!” 

In her heart of hearts, Dr. Lange couldn’t have cared less if Mickey ever said a word in furtherance of the case, but she knew Camden did, so she cloaked her concern for Mickey in a language Camden could understand. Her true motivation in treating Mickey was her genuine interest in his long-term recovery and psychiatric health, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that Ian Gallagher was the missing piece of Mickey’s puzzle.

Camden stomped angrily toward the door, letting a half-hearted “Will do,” escape from between his gritted teeth. “Wait!” Dr. Lange called to him, just as he was about to walk out the door, “How long did you say Mikhailo was at Stateville, before coming here?” 

“About two weeks. Why?” Camden asked, sounding resentful for having been further detained in order to entertain what he felt was yet another trivial question. “Because his tattoo…It’s been there a while. I’m talking years. I’m telling you, this Ian could make a big difference in Mikhailo’s recovery. Now, will you please find him, or do I have to ask Mr. Carl?” Dr. Lange threatened.


	28. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is on the short side, but I'll have another one out soon! Thought you might appreciate a quick update!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!

Teresa was absolutely floored when the woman on the other end of the phone identified herself as a psychiatrist from Johns Hopkins, who was treating a former Stateville inmate. Dr. Lange had first asked Teresa’s name and position, then quickly checked it against the email that had been sent from Stateville, immediately after which she began firing questions at Teresa, explaining that the answers to these questions were essential to the treatment of one of her patients. 

“Do you know an inmate named Ian Gallagher?” she asked first. “Yes, but he has been transferred to another institution for his own safety,” Teresa replied, opting not to disclose the name of the prison just yet. 

“And did you know him to have a fiance?” Dr. Lange asked in follow-up. “Yes,” Teresa answered, keeping Mickey’s name to herself in hopes that the doctor would share it so she wouldn’t have to. “And did this fiance have Ian’s name tattooed on his body?” she asked. “Yes, on his chest,” Teresa answered, her eyes filling up with tears as she realized this doctor was, in fact, treating Mickey.

“How is he?” Teresa asked breathlessly, fighting to keep her voice, despite the emotion rising from within her. “Physically, he is recovering well, but…” Dr. Lange paused, searching for the right words. Teresa involuntarily let out a shaky gasp.

“He is not communicating very well with us here,” Dr. Lange continued, “It’s unclear as to what his mental status is, particularly with regard to his memory and ability to think clearly. He is highly volatile, often requiring sedation. He insists that we promised he would be with Ian. Obviously, we made no such promise,” Dr. Lange explained, “But I’d like to at least give him the opportunity to talk with him. I think it might provide some motivation for him to recover.”

Now Teresa’s tears fell freely, leaving streaky, mascara-stained stripes down her cheeks in their wake. “Ian is currently being housed at a medium-security prison for non-violent offenders,” she blurted out, then stopping momentarily in an attempt to gather herself. “It is possible for inmates there to get a furlough to make a visit, but because of his legal situation, which is similar to that of his fiance, Ian getting permission could prove to be difficult,” Teresa shared, having anticipated the doctor’s next question. 

“I may be able to pull some strings on this end. The people who brought Mikhailo here have some serious sway within the prison system. I’ve seen them make all sorts of unbelievable scenarios happen in the past,” Dr. Lange suggested. 

Teresa swallowed hard, attempting to stifle her own emotional response to hearing Mickey’s name. It was as though she could feel the gut-wrenching pain both of these men were surely enduring, not knowing when or if they would ever see each other again. She had to do all she could to help them, to somehow get Ian to Mickey. But she didn’t feel comfortable making what would surely be an elaborate plan with a stranger on the other end of a prison phone. She needed to know more about this doctor. Were her motives sincere? It certainly seemed so, but Teresa had learned to be wary over the years, not to trust as easily as she was naturally inclined to. 

“Dr. Lange, I wonder if we might try something first, and keep it between the two of us, or three of us, as the case might be,” Teresa proposed. “What did you have in mind?” Dr. Lange responded. “Would you be willing to FaceTime or video chat?” Teresa asked. She knew she was going out on a limb, but felt that, if the doctor’s motives were pure, she might go for it. “I’d like to see if Mickey remembers me. I, along with Ian, was responsible for much of his medical care here at Stateville.” 

“Ian?” Dr. Lange asked, her curiosity piqued. “Yes, although Ian spent a lot of time in the infirmary as a patient, he was also assigned here for his work detail. He is a licensed EMT,” Teresa explained. “But I thought…” Dr. Lange began, then stopped to rephrase. “This tattoo is not new. How could they have met in the infirmary?” 

“They didn’t,” Teresa answered, wondering why Dr. Lange would even think they’d just met at Stateville. Then she realized that Dr. Lange must not have any background on their relationship, not even from Mickey. “Ian and Mickey have been together, on and off, since high school,” Teresa shared, the thought of their current separation, after all they’d been through, after all the years, all of the heartaches, all of the love, causing her to tear up, yet again. 

“Oh my God!” Dr. Lange exclaimed, shocking herself with her emotional reaction during what should have remained an entirely professional conversation, “Yes, let me set up a time when I can sit with...did you call him ‘Mickey’?” Dr. Lange questioned, once she'd composed herself a bit. “Yes...Mickey,” Teresa repeated, sensing already that Dr. Lange was a good person with a genuine concern for her patient, “Thank you.”

________________________________

“Ian,” Dr. Steiner, the prison physician said, speaking softly as he entered Ian’s cell. No response. “Ian Gallagher,” the doctor repeated, a bit more loudly. Still nothing. “Ian, I understand you have been refusing to eat or take your medication,” he continued addressing Ian, though he had received no reaction from Ian to suggest he was even listening. Ian remained silent, facing the wall, his back turned away from Dr. Steiner and the rest of the world around him. “Well, I’m afraid that if you continue these behaviors, I will have no choice but to transfer you to a psychiatric facility,” Dr. Steiner informed him, hoping it might loosen his tongue. No such luck.

“Gallagher!” Aaronson, the C.O. assigned to guard Ian called out from the end of the row, Dr. Steiner having asked him to step back and give them some privacy. Dr. Steiner stepped out of the cell, prepared to confront Aaronson for his rude interruption, when Aaronson approached, making his apologies, “Sorry, Doc. Just got a call from Stateville. Nurse by the name of Teresa Lewis is requesting a visit, but she’s not on his list. Says she has important news to share with him.” 

“Ian? Did you hear that? Ms. Lewis from Stateville wants to visit you. Would you like to add her to your list?” Dr. Steiner asked, though he seriously doubted he would get an answer, based on Ian’s demeanor thus far. Much to his surprise, Ian raised his right hand, the first movement he had seen him make since he had come to see him. 

“I’m afraid he may be too weak to even write, at this point,” Dr. Steiner stated in a concerned voice. “I think an admission to the infirmary, at the very least, is necessary. He needs to be rehydrated, fed intravenously and given his meds regularly,” he concluded, adding, “Ms. Lewis is welcome to visit him there, pending his approval.” Then he turned in Ian’s direction, warning him, “If you don’t cooperate, Ian, I’ll have no choice but to send you to a psychiatric facility, for the sake of your well-being.”

____________________________

“Karen,” Teresa mumbled into her cell phone, after closing the door to the private restroom, adjoining the room that both Ian and Mickey had occupied, less than a month before, “I need the paper...I’ll explain later...Can you meet me with it tonight?”


	29. FaceTime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brace Yourself: This is big!

Ian had already been moved up onto the infirmary and had been receiving IV Ketamine, in addition to his regular medication, along with IV nutrition and hydration. He still hadn’t said a word, but hadn’t fought the medical staff either, quite conceivably because he lacked both the will and the physical strength to do so. He had, however, after a few hours of his treatment, signed off on Teresa being added to his visitation list. Prior to that, only Mickey, Clyde Fenton and Fiona had been on his list, none of whom had been to see him. 

Ironically enough, the first visitor Ian got wasn’t on his list at all. He had finally settled into something close to a restful sleep, following a blood draw and examination of his still-healing leg, when a representative from the U.S. Attorney’s office arrived, requesting to speak with him privately. 

“Gallagher,” Seth, his guardian C.O. whispered, as he hovered over his hospital bed. Ian’s eyes blinked open slowly, his vision still fuzzy from the mix of medications he was getting. “One of the Feds is here to see ya,” he continued, Ian still struggling to focus on the face in front of him. “C’mon, gotta get ya in this wheelchair,” he prodded, Ian’s eyes trailing slowly in the direction of the nurse who stood behind the wheelchair, awaiting Ian’s cooperation in getting out of bed. 

Ian’s brain felt muddled, like he was in some sort of weird dream-state, struggling to differentiate between reality and the disorienting thoughts that bombarded his mind. “Teresa?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes as he attempted to focus on the nurse, who had lowered his side-rail in response to his vague movement in her direction.

“No, sweetie. My name is Rae,” she corrected kindly, reaching for his outstretched hand. “Is Mickey here?” he asked, gripping her hand tightly, as he fought to raise himself to a sitting position. Seth took the initiative of moving his IV bags to the pole on the wheelchair, while Rae helped Ian to swing his legs over the side of the bed, taking care to protect his right one from further injury. He had fallen woefully behind in the rehab of the leg, due to his refusal to get out of bed, even on days when he had been scheduled to leave the prison for physical therapy.

“Just me and Seth...and the man from the U.S. Attorney’s Office,” she answered, Ian’s face instantly falling, his body going limp with disappointment. “C’mon, Ian,” Seth urged, “Maybe he has something good to tell ya.” 

Seth was a nice enough guy---young, even younger than Ian---but his assignment to guard Ian close, all day, everyday, had annoyed Ian from the start, though now, in the face of all of Ian’s mental health and legal issues, Seth’s compassion and familiarity were becoming somewhat of a comfort.

Ian nodded in Seth’s direction, doing what he could to expedite his transition from the bed to the wheelchair. Seth smiled in return, gripping him at the waist, while Rae maneuvered the wheelchair behind him. “Thanks,” Ian breathed graciously as he settled into the wheelchair that was now bound for the infirmary office. Rae had negotiated to get the meeting moved there, citing to frail Ian’s condition. She had questioned the wisdom of putting him outside the protective medical environment, in such a fragile state. 

Seth eased Ian’s wheelchair through the doorway, patting him on the shoulder on his way out. “Hello, Mr. Gallagher. My name is Aaron James, Assistant U.S. Attorney, working the RICO investigation of recent Cartel activities at Stateville Prison,” the all-business, pinched-faced man in front of him said in an official tone. Ian nodded his head slightly in acknowledgement. 

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about your interactions with the Cartel at Stateville,” James continued, Ian remaining quiet and aloof, to the point that James questioned whether he was listening. “Did you hear me, Mr. Gallagher?” he asked, quickly becoming frustrated with Ian’s lack of response. Ian looked up at him absently, a faint buzzing in his ears putting him into somewhat of a trance, as flashes of events that had occurred at Stateville rolled through his mind, images of Mickey’s mangled ear and bloody head being the most prevalent. 

“Is Mickey okay?” Ian asked after a brief lull, having become fixated on his memory of finding him injured in Solitary, to the exclusion of all else. “I don’t...Can we just please focus on the Cartel for now?” James barked unsympathetically. Again, Ian appeared as though the question hadn’t even registered with him. He sat, staring off at nothing in particular, his eyes glazed over and out of focus.

“Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Gallagher,” James growled, getting up begrudgingly from his chair and exiting the office, leaving Ian alone. After a minute or two, Ian heard James shout, “Well, why the hell is he on all this medication?! No wonder I can’t get anything out of him! I want his dosage reduced! This is ridiculous! He’s a key witness!” 

Rae tried to explain Ian’s situation, but it fell on deaf ears, so she gave up, peeking her head into the office where Ian still sat, once James had finally left. “You okay?” she asked in a soothing voice, rubbing his shoulders softly as she spoke. Ian nodded, her touch having helped to tune him back in to the world around him. “You have another visitor,” she added, showing Teresa into the office. 

“Ian?” Teresa said in a near whisper, attempting to mask the shock in her voice, upon her catching sight of his emaciated, vulnerable form. “How are ya, honey?” Ian’s eyes instantly filled with tears, Teresa rushing over to hug him into her. “Guess what?” she whispered into the crown of his head as she held him close. Ian tilted his head upward, making eye contact, a cautiously hopeful look on his face. 

“Mickey’s got a good doctor!” she said with a smile, watching Ian’s face brighten the moment she said it. “But he’s not cooperating…:” Teresa continued. Ian’s tears drizzled down his face now, though he made no attempt to wipe them away, instead sitting motionless, once again seeming to be in some kind of trance. “New medication?” Teresa asked, looking over at Rae, who was standing in the doorway, along with Seth. Rae nodded in affirmation, adding, “Trying to get him re-acclimated. He was refusing them, along with his meals.”

“Ian, you know you have to eat and take your meds. Mickey needs you to be well!” Teresa spoke gently, hiding her frustration, for Ian’s sake. Just then, Teresa’s phone vibrated. She had convinced the security officer at the prison entrance to allow her to bring it, along with her purse, in for her visit by flashing her Stateville ID and having Dr. Lange send an email to Dr. Steiner.

Teresa looked at her phone, then smiled down at Ian. “Would you please give us some privacy?” Teresa asked politely, turning to face Rae and Seth, who immediately complied, shutting the door quietly. 

Once they were alone, Teresa said, “This is Mickey’s doctor, Dr. Lange,” as she accepted her FaceTime call. “Hello, Dr. Lange. I’m here with Ian,” Teresa began, turning the camera so Dr, Lange could see him. “I’m afraid he’s not well,” she proceeded to explain, adding, “He’s being treated for a depressive episode. He’s bipolar.” Before Dr. Lange had a chance to respond, Mickey began yelling in the background, “Lemme talk to him! Lemme talk to him!” 

Though this was not what Teresa or Dr. Lange had envisioned, Dr. Lange answered Mickey, actually very pleased to see Mickey reacting coherently, quite obviously aware of what was happening, and responding verbally. This was the best she’d seen him, since his arrival three weeks before. “Okay, but Ian may not be up to talking much,” she warned.

She positioned her phone so that Ian and Mickey could now see one another. “Mickey!” Ian wailed, grabbing the phone from Teresa’s hand, completely overtaken with emotion, “I’m sorry,” he sobbed, the look in his eyes so pitifully desperate, Teresa was tempted to intervene and try to comfort him. She remained quiet, however, wondering what Ian was sorry for now. He’d already apologized for everything he’d done in the past, in the letter she’d read to Mickey, while he was still in a coma at Good Samaritan. 

“Don’t be sorry, man. Just get your ass here, like they promised,” Mickey replied, turning to Dr. Lange. “You’re gonna get him here, right?” he asked. “I’ll do my best. I will need to talk with Teresa and Ian’s doctor, and probably some of the people who have been here to see you about the case. You know, it would really help if you cooperated with them,” Dr. Lange suggested in her gentle, no-nonsense way. 

“I ain’t sayin’ shit ‘til Ian’s here!” Mickey bellowed, “Ian! Don’t fuckin’ talk to anyone! Tell ‘em they fuckin’ promised me!” Mickey’s anger was escalating to the point that Dr. Lange worried she might have made a mistake by letting him talk to Ian. Then she heard Ian speak softly to Mickey, and with surprising clarity, “Mick, now that I know you’re okay, NOTHING will keep me from you. Don’t worry! Just do what they say. They need to know you can still help them.” 

Teresa wiped her face, her tears having been falling steadily since Mickey had started making his demands. She couldn’t believe how present in the moment Mickey was, compared with the way Dr. Lange had described him. And the change in Ian, after seeing Mickey, was nothing short of miraculous. 

“Okay,” Teresa interjected, “How about if I talk with Dr. Lange now? We can make a plan.” 

“Please!” Ian pleaded tearfully, clutching the phone firmly in his hand, “Just let me see him for a little longer!” Teresa didn’t have the heart to deny him, after all they’d been through. “What do you say we talk about this on landlines, Dr. Lange? It seems reasonable that Ian could benefit from your expertise, so perhaps we can draft a request,” Teresa suggested.

“I think we could do that,” Dr. Lange said, her smile audible in her voice, as she handed her phone over to Mickey. 

“But before I go,” Teresa piped up, pulling an envelope from her purse, “There’s something I’d like to show you both.” She opened the envelope, sliding a single piece of paper out of it, then handing it to Ian. Ian read it to himself, then reversed the phone again so Mickey could read it. “...That really his fuckin’ signature?” were the first words out of Mickey’s mouth. “Yes,” Teresa answered, “I got this from his secretary. She put it away for you guys, when the shit hit the fan. You guys got outta Stateville just in time, by the way. But that’s a story for another day,” Teresa grinned, walking out of the office and closing the door behind her. 

“Ian...You okay?” Mickey asked, genuinely concerned, based on Ian’s pale, thin appearance, coupled with his intermittent periods of spaciness. “Got me on a lotta shit...but it’s my fault. I...I stopped taking my meds when I thought I’d never see you again. They all told me they didn’t know anything about you...I thought maybe you...that maybe…”

“Ian! Stop!” Mickey yelled, cutting Ian off before he could upset himself again. “I’m right fuckin’ here...and I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Just waitin’ for your ass to show up so we can get married!” Then Mickey got quiet, smiling for the first time since he’d last seen Ian. He moved his eyes slowly over the phone screen, feasting them on every precious pixel of his man, completely mesmerized by his flawless, innocent beauty. 

“Mick?” Ian called to him, jolting him back to reality. “Yeah?” Mickey breathed, still soaking him in, re-memorizing every freckle on his angelic face, the way his lower lip pushed out into a half-pout, just a touch beyond his upper one, how the yellow flecks in his eyes danced over their beautiful green backdrop, the gradual transition of the fiery, red roots of his hair to the now faded black ends---everything about him.

“I love you,” Ian said in a low, raspy voice that lit Mickey on fire. “Ian…” Mickey breathed, his crystal blue eyes growing glassy as he caught sight of Dr. Lange coming through the door to his room. 

“I love you, too. Gotta go now,” he finished, ending the Facetime call and handing Dr. Lange her phone, “Thanks, Doc. Tell ‘em I remember...all of it...and it’s cuz a you.”


	30. Up In The Air

Dr. Lange began seeing Mickey daily, working to determine what he did and did not recall. Surprisingly, Mickey had no recollection of the events leading up to and including his aneurysm bursting. He understood that he’d had surgery for it, but his consecutive recall of events ended with the last morning he and Ian had spent together in the private room of the Stateville infirmary. 

This led Dr. Lange to believe that Ball’s arrival, or possibly the prospect of Mickey having to leave Ian, had triggered the event. No doubt, the abuse in the elevator had exacerbated the damage, but Dr. Lange chose to focus on Mickey’s anxiety relating to being separated from Ian, since it seemed to be ongoing. She also knew that the more this was documented, the better chance she had of reuniting him with Ian on a more permanent basis, something she believed, after witnessing their emotional FaceTime interaction, to be crucial to his continued cooperation and recovery. 

She had also corresponded with Dr. Steiner regarding Ian’s condition and a prospective treatment that didn’t involve additional medication. Asst. U.S. Attorney James had made it abundantly clear that he would stall any transfer that involved more medication, citing to Ian’s inability to verbalize his recall of key events about which he needed to testify, while on the additional meds Dr. Steiner had recently prescribed. 

The state-of-the-art treatment, Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS), was definitely a possibility, given that Johns Hopkins was one of the pioneers in the field and had had documented success with severely and chronically depressed patients. She wasn’t ruling out, however, the possibility that getting Ian and Mickey together, even if it was only for a short time, while they were being treated, might make more of a difference in both of their prognoses than anything she or the hospital could do for them. Teresa had provided her with plenty of background on their relationship that corroborated what Mickey had begun to share, and Dr. Lange, having built a career on following her hunches, decided to lead with the TMS idea---selling the notion that it would make Ian the ideal witness in no time---but then treating him as she saw fit, once he was her patient.

Once Dr. Lange had laid all of the groundwork, the next step was arranging for Ian’s transport from FCI to Johns Hopkins. The U.S. Attorney’s Office set up a ride in an unmarked federal vehicle, with the stipulation that Ian be cuffed and fettered, though Ian had no reason to flee, since he was being delivered to the very hospital that currently housed Mickey, and wouldn’t think of wanting to go anywhere else. He did, however, request that they allow him to apply for his marriage license, since Petrov had signed off on his request. He was told that the request no longer held any significance, since he’d been transferred to FCI, and furthermore, that an Illinois Marriage License wouldn’t be valid in Baltimore anyway.

Ian felt like he’d been stabbed through the heart. He had watched the way Mickey’s eyes lit up when he saw the signed request. He’d had the same reaction himself. Luckily, after a few days on his medication, and because he knew he would still get to see Mickey, he was able to   
sustain himself---barely. Both Rae and Seth did, however, notice a marked decline in his responsiveness, once he’d received that news, which they both reported to Dr. Steiner, who, with the blessing of James, began the process of expediting his transfer.

_____________________________

Teresa had submitted a request to Petrov to make another trip to see T, but hadn’t heard anything back for three days since. She was beyond surprised, and ecstatic, when she got a call from Petrov on Friday afternoon. “Hey Teresa,” he began with the familiar tone he now used with her, following the close working relationship they had developed over the course of the RICO investigations. “Yes,” she responded tentatively, fearing he might be asking a favor of some sort. 

“Interested in working the weekend?” he asked, clearly fucking with her, since he knew she had requested to visit T. “Well…” she stammered, thinking he had brass balls to even consider asking such a thing. “Flight nurse to Johns Hopkins!” he blurted out, before she had a chance to answer. “Oooo...you’re lucky,” she responded, “I was about to tell you what I thought!” she giggled playfully. 

She had grown attached to Petrov, after having gone through so much with him, and the reverse was also true. In fact, had it not been for Teresa’s tireless dedication to T, Petrov would definitely have asked her to go out for a real drink by now. Things were as they were, however, and he had to settle for making her happy by giving her the opportunity to see T, which he did as often as possible. 

Teresa was even more thrilled upon her federally-chauffeured arrival at St. Francis Medical Center in Peoria, when she learned, as she had suspected, that the inmate she would be accompanying was none other than Ian. As pleased as she was, her reaction paled in comparison with Ian’s. His smile was a mile wide and extended up to his eyes, which teared up as she returned the smile. She couldn’t help but hug him, just as soon as they got situated in the helicopter, despite the presence of two U.S. Marshalls. Of course, Ian was cuffed and fettered, in addition to being strapped into his gurney, rendering him unable to return her affection, other than the kiss he planted on her left cheek as she hugged him. 

The flight seemed short to Teresa, who spent a good part of it discussing T’s progress with Ian, sharing her belief that he would be released from the nursing facility soon. She also brought up the possibility of leaving Stateville, once T decided what he was going to do, following the trials. He would most certainly be getting a nice settlement from the State of Illinois, but she knew him well enough to realize he would be chomping at the bit to return to some type of employment, though she couldn’t hazard a guess as to what. He seemed to have avoided the topic, each time she visited. 

Ian shared his upset over the whole marriage license debacle, which made her angry as well. The last thing Ian needed right now was more disappointment. She promised to look into their options in the Baltimore/D.C. area, encouraging him not to give up. 

_____________________________

“Who is doing this exactly?!” Petrov barked incredulously into his phone. It had been a long day and all he wanted was to get the hell out of the prison and lick his wounds after a truly crazy week. Both investigations were in full bloom, with the Feds conducting interviews of multiple inmates daily, along with the occasional C.O. Petrov had to be available for questioning, following each and every interview, in addition to keeping the prison itself going, which was no small task, given the employee turnover it had experienced, incident to the investigations. The majority of the C.O.s he now employed were young and wet behind the ears, thus requiring frequent administrative intervention whenever anything went remotely wrong. 

“Adolf’s family,” Ball confided. “They are asking me to pursue criminal liability,” he added. Ball’s attitude toward Petrov had changed drastically, after he had been forcibly enlisted as a witness in the RICO case against the AB. He was basically threatened by the U.S. Attorney’s Office into giving testimony that he knew, once it came to the AB’s attention, would put his life at risk. 

Consequently, he had come to see Petrov as an ally, someone who would keep his mouth shut about his knowledge of Ball’s dealings, or lack thereof, regarding allegations against the AB, in exchange for a head’s up when anything potentially threatening to Petrov or Stateville came across his desk. Petrov knew Ball’s inaction against the AB stemmed from a genuine fear of them, and that, over the years, they had exploited that fear to all but make him their puppet by promising him protection from the Cartel, which he had been actively prosecuting for years. Now he was caught between a rock and a hard place, and was desperate for someone to have his back. 

“Manslaughter for Gallagher and Criminal Negligence for you and Stateville,” Ball added. Petrov laughed, “So they think I intentionally put Adolf in the infirmary so Gallagher, who couldn’t even walk at the time, could kill him? In self-defense, I might add, and with a shiv that Adolf, himself, brought with him? Are they serious?”

“Well,” Ball began, “First of all, who’s to say Adolf brought that shiv with him? Didn’t your guys search all of the AB guys extensively before they were taken to Solitary?” “Oh, come the fuck on, Ball! Are you fucking serious with this shit? Because I can…” Petrov snarled, Ball interrupting him, mid-sentence. “No, no, no...Don’t misunderstand me. I’m playing devil’s advocate here,” Ball said, backpedaling. 

“Listen...There’s a lot riding on Gallagher’s testimony, for both of these RICO cases. I don’t think the Feds would appreciate you screwing with his credibility,” Petrov growled, unleashing all of his bottled up frustration on Ball. “Besides, it won’t be long before the AB is out for your blood. Filing a case like this won’t change that,” he added in a menacing tone. Petrov didn’t like to be threatened, and he made that quite clear. He didn’t know why Ball even felt the need to give such a ridiculous request any consideration, but he needed to cover himself and the prison, and he knew the Feds would protect Ian, as long as he was providing crucial testimony. 

“Call me,” Petrov texted Teresa from his flip-phone.

_____________________________________

As the helicopter landed on the roof of Johns Hopkins, Teresa gently shook Ian awake. “We’re here!” she whispered, though the excitement in her voice was still quite discernible, “You’re finally gonna get to see Mickey---in the flesh!” Ian’s eyes brimmed over with tears of joy, his stomach filled with butterflies, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since he had first laid eyes on Mickey in their prison cell. “Mickey…” he murmured, a smile once again spreading across his face as the Marshalls guided Ian’s gurney out of the helicopter.


	31. A Room With A View

Teresa wanted to accompany Ian into the hospital, but was also dying to see T. She knew Mickey and Ian would want time together, free of outside interference anyway, so she reluctantly said her goodbyes, catching an Uber to D.C. 

The Marshalls were met by hospital security, and Ian was brought via a guarded patient transport elevator to the floor where he would be staying. Care was taken to cover his face before wheeling him down the hall to Mickey’s room, which was marked ‘BioHazard’, and was under 24-hour video surveillance, in addition to the door being guarded, 24/7. 

As Ian was being wheeled past the guard posted at the entrance to his room, he heard Mickey’s panicked voice. “...The fuck?! Why you got him covered up like that?!” Ian’s heart began to pound with anticipation. He wriggled around in the gurney in an attempt to get the cover off his face, something his transporters had neglected to do, upon entering the room. “I’m fine, Mick,” Ian responded, adding, “Could someone please lower this sheet?”

The orderlie quickly obliged him, then turning to the Marshall who had accompanied him to ask, “Are you gonna take off his restraints? It’d be a lot easier to move him if you did.” 

“I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to worry. I’m exactly where I wanna be,” Ian interjected, glancing over adoringly at Mickey, who couldn’t help but smile at Ian in return. “I can let him loose while ya move him, but he’s getting cuffed to the bed as soon as he’s in it,” the Marshall replied with an edge in his voice, obviously not happy with what he felt was a challenge to his authority. 

The whole process was over in less than two minutes, despite Ian’s leg injury, the orderlie doing his best to minimize Ian’s discomfort in spite of the Marshall’s blatant disregard for Ian’s medical condition. At one point, Ian caught the orderlie’s look of disapproval aimed at the Marshall, Ian smirking slightly in response. Apparently, the Marshall also noticed, muttering, “This is for your protection, and the rest of the staff here. This guy just shanked another inmate...to death. You want him layin’ in here unrestrained?” At this point, Ian rolled his eyes, pissing the guy off even more. 

“You better watch yourself!” the Marshall bellowed. “Hey!” Mickey piped up, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about! Ain’t no reason to restrain him. And he didn’t kill nobody!” “Well, actually…” Ian began, stopping mid-sentence upon seeing Mickey’s stunned reaction. “What the fuck?!” Mickey demanded, half afraid to hear Ian’s answer. 

The Marshall looked as if he wanted to stifle Ian at this point, but said nothing, allowing him to continue. “After you left with Ball, Adolf attacked me while I was sleeping,” Ian began, Mickey’s expression turning from shock to absolute horror. He braced himself for the rest of Ian’s story, hoping against all hope that what he feared most hadn’t happened.

“He tried to suffocate me with his pillow, but he had a shiv in his pocket. I had to use it! It was him or me! I didn’t mean to kill him! Nicked his carotid, I guess,” Ian explained. Now Mickey was fighting back a grin, knowing full-well where Ian had gotten the shiv, and happy as fuck that, even in his absence, he’d managed to save Ian’s ass. “Jesus Christ, Ian! Why didn’t ya tell me?” Mickey howled emotionally, before realizing that he probably should’ve kept his mouth shut. Ian shot him a sidelong glance, responding, “Well, I didn’t have a chance before now!” Mickey let a beautifully soft smile overtake his face, as he returned Ian’s look out of the corner of his eye. 

“Hey, I did my job. You’re on your own,” the Marshall shrugged as he made brief, cursory eye contact with the orderlie before electing to end his week without any unnecessary drama, feeling safe in the knowledge that Ian was cuffed to his bed, one arm, one leg, though he still couldn’t even walk without a cane or crutches anyway.

“Good riddance, asshole!” Mickey yelled, just after the door shut behind him. From Ian’s vantage point, he could see the Marshall talking briefly with the guard on duty, then walking away. The orderlie said nothing, flashing a brief half-smile of acknowledgement at Ian prior to making his exit. 

And then it was just the two of them---Mickey and Ian---and the 24-hour surveillance camera that was locked on Mickey’s bed, allowing virtually every moment of his life to be remotely monitored. Anytime he wanted to leave the bed, he had to call the office at the nurse’s station, so the federal agent who was sitting in there watching the live feed would know why he wasn’t in the bed. There were also additional cameras in the room, for use during a two-patient scenario.

Mickey had argued that the surveillance was an unnecessary inconvenience, both for him and for the guys who wasted their time watching, round the clock. After all, he had reasoned, the room was guarded already for his protection. Apparently, the Feds were reluctant to trust anyone, even the City of Baltimore Police Officers, who were assigned rotating shifts of guard duty. 

Dr. Lange was also in favor of the camera surveillance, particularly because Mickey had been so volatile and given to fits of rage recently. And now that there was an inmate, Ian, also occupying the room, the surveillance was as good as permanent.

Mickey had yet to enjoy a moment of actual freedom, despite his Compassionate Release. In fact, he had been watched more closely since his arrival at Johns Hopkins than he had been at Stateville. Suddenly feeling the need for a few moments of freedom, he picked up the phone on his bedside table, dialing the nurse’s station. “It’s Milkovich,” he said, identifying himself politely, “I’d like to get a shower.” He paused, apparently listening to the person on the other end of the phone, his gaze wandering in Ian’s direction until their eyes met. 

“Yes, I can manage. I did it on my own last time!” he bleated impatiently, his eyes trailing up and down Ian’s body amorously, his breath catching in his throat as he soaked up every square inch of his love’s beautiful form. “Thank you!” he finally grunted before slamming the phone down onto its base and hopping out of his bed with newfound motivation. 

He rushed over to Ian’s bedside, stopping short to contemplate how best to get as close as possible to Ian, without hurting him or getting into a position he couldn’t easily abandon, if necessary. He quickly assessed the situation, then proceeded to climb carefully into the bed, curling up to Ian on his ‘free’ side, then wrapping his arms around his neck, desperately craving the comfort of Ian’s embrace as he maneuvered himself in tightly against Ian. 

“Ian,” Mickey whispered softly into Ian’s ear, the warmth of Ian’s skin against his own spreading an intense tingle over his entire body. Ian’s face flushed crimson in the blink of an eye, goosebumps rising everywhere at once, his pulse and respirations quickening as Mickey’s panting sighs and sweet essence brought his cock to immediate attention, rendering him instantly overcome with desire. He inhaled deeply, reveling in the electricity of Mickey’s touch and the deliciously arousing scent he had known, loved and longed for, for what seemed like forever. 

Ian had not even so much as touched himself since he’d seen Mickey last, his 24-hour protection, much like Mickey’s, having deprived him of any and all privacy. His only occasions for release were the accidental result of a few wet dreams he’d had when he had been fortunate enough to have Mickey visit him in them.

“Mick,” Ian murmured, turning his head to face Mickey, his lips hopelessly drawn to Mickey’s, sucking them in, nibbling at them, running his tongue over them, savoring every familiar, yet addictively alluring, minute contour. “C’mere!” Ian begged, unable to turn his body to face Mickey’s, because of his restraints, yet dying to feel him, to press against him, to hold him. Mickey wasted no time in rolling over onto Ian, straddling him to avoid any contact with the injured leg, while ensuring the ultimate in divine friction between their fully engorged and pre-cum dribbling cocks. 

Mickey kissed Ian hard, his tongue delving deeply, passionately into Ian’s mouth, as though the world were ending, tortured moans escaping from his own lips and being all but entirely swallowed by Ian, his mouth feasting on Mickey’s, as Mickey lifted both of their gowns and slowly rubbed himself back and forth atop Ian’s throbbing, leaking manhood, their insatiable yearning so intense that Ian could scarcely contain himself. 

Ian rocked his hips up, countering Mickey’s every move to carnal perfection. “Fuck, Mick!! So...fucking...good!” Ian wailed amid Mickey’s rapturous tonguing, prompting Mickey to substitute his cupped hand for his own mouth over Ian’s, in an effort to deaden the noise of Ian’s fervent cries. “Shhhh…” Mickey whispered, his hand still smashed unforgivingly against Ian’s lips, which, combined with the confined, helpless feeling he got as he struggled against his restraints, only served to stoke the flames of Ian’s frenzied arousal, prompting an even more zealous attempt on Mickey’s part to silence him. 

“You don’t shut the fuck up, I’m gonna stop!” Mickey threatened, his breathing becoming more labored as he worked to slow his movements, frotting Ian haltingly, teasingy, until Ian was so hot for him, he couldn’t see straight, his mind and body swirling, writhing, begging---hopelessly trapped in an edging-induced no-man’s land, from which even the most plaintive pleading couldn’t save him. Mickey chuckled, enjoying the control he had over Ian in that moment, though delaying their satisfaction was equally torturous for him to endure, despite his uncanny ability to pretend it wasn’t.

Ian whimpered softly, the feeling of his imminent release washing over him at an agonizingly slow rate. “I’m...gonna…” Ian breathed raggedly. “Mmmm Hmmm,” Mickey hummed, shooting Ian a sexy smile as he quickened his pace, his humping becoming more heated, his kisses more passionate, the delightful combination of which brought Ian to climax in seconds flat. “Shhh....” Mickey reminded him, once again pressing his hand firmly over Ian’s mouth as he exploded, Mickey following suit closely thereafter, biting his own lip to keep from screaming Ian’s name in ecstacy, a phenomenal feeling of relief, pleasure and pure joy bubbling over from inside him. 

Mickey was so euphoric, so fucking fulfilled, he was sure he must be dreaming. Ian couldn’t possibly be lying underneath him, covered in the fruits of their sweet lovemaking, smiling up at him as only the love of his life could. It was simply too good to be true. “Think I’m dreamin’...Pinch me,” Mickey demanded, after which Ian did exactly that.

“Owww! Fuck! You’re a killer, arright,” Mickey panted, choking back a giggle as he peered down at his adorably flushed, breathtakingly beguiling, red and black, two-tone-locked lover. “Don’t know how the fuck they saved my ass...kept me around this whole time...cuz I ain’t been alive ‘til now,” Mickey professed lovingly, stroking Ian’s face tenderly, cheek to temple, as he gazed into Ian’s hypnotic, gold-flecked, green eyes.

“Yeah, well...better start thinking of how you can get your friends here to take this shit off!” Ian whined, pulling angrily against his handcuff with his left wrist. “‘Cause I gotta do more than just lay here. I mean...we’re gonna talk...a lot. We’ve got shit to catch up on, and a wedding to plan, but sometime soon, I want it all...Been a long time, Mick, and I’ve really missed that sweet ass of yours,” Ian smirked, purposely objectifying Mickey, just to get his goat. 

“Just so happens, I missed yours, too, so…” Mickey shot back with a mischievous glint in his eye and a sexy smirk to match, effectively putting an end to Ian’s little game, forthwith. Mickey lifted himself off the bed, running to wet a towel to wash Ian up with, before jumping into the shower himself. He knew he had to make it quick, already quite surprised that they hadn’t been interrupted during their session. 

“Hey, Mick,” Ian called to him as Mickey headed for the bathroom. “Yeah?” Mickey answered. “I love you!” Ian hollered, tears of joy and gratitude trickling down his the sides of his face. Mickey grinned, feeling as though his soul had been reawakened the moment Ian had arrived. He wet the softest towel he could find with perfectly warm water, preparing to bathe his man, a privilege he valued highly, and had missed sorely. “Love you, too, Gallagher!” he called back to him. 

________________________________________

“I’ve got this,” Dr. Lange said firmly, dismissing the federal agent that manned the security feed from Mickey, and now Ian’s room. As Dr. Lange closed the office door behind her, she flipped on the feed from the camera over on Ian’s bed, hoping to get eyes on him, and to locate Mickey as well. Just as she suspected, they were together already and getting quite cozy. She observed as Mickey closed the distance between them, then as Ian coaxed Mickey to climb on top of him. And what she saw after that was pure magic! She watched as the two lovers moved together, so obviously completely enamoured with one another and so incredibly in touch with each other’s needs and desires, it nearly brought her to tears. 

And yet the scene before her was also so intensely arousing, so captivating, that she fought herself to look away. “You’ve seen enough. You know they need each other to get well. You can formulate effective treatment plans for both. STOP LOOKING!” she chided herself. But she couldn’t. She turned on the audio, the sweet sounds of their mutual gratification exciting her to the point that she considered, if only for a fleeting moment, the unthinkable---to pleasure herself as she listened. “So beautiful…” she muttered as she forced herself to click the audio and the second camera off, then switching back to the first camera, terribly flustered and embarrassed, as she fought to catch her breath. 

She ran to the Ladies Room, leaving the office completely unmanned, splashing cold water on her flushed face in an attempt to regain her composure after witnessing such a hot display of passionate lovemaking, before tracking down the agent who had been surveilling, requesting that he reman his post so she could make her rounds before leaving for the evening. 

She now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Ian was Mickey’s elixir of life, and vice versa. She made a note to contact Teresa before leaving for the evening, about the possibility of their being married ASAP. She’d inadvertently overheard a conversation between two federal agents about Mickey, concerning the possibility of him being forced into Witness Protection---and she now recognized that he’d never survive that without Ian.

_____________________________

Teresa had heard Petrov’s text come in, but had ignored it in favor of continuing T’s first unaided, post-surgical walk with him. She had convinced his nurse to allow it, citing to her own professional experience as a safeguard against any further injury. Little did she know what T had in store for her. Clearly, he was still in the early stages of healing from his two recent and extensive surgeries to repair several major organs in his abdomen, thus being unable to consummate their budding relationship in the traditional way. This wasn’t, however, going to stop him from showing Teresa how very interested he still was in her, and making his appreciation for her visits and support well-known.

“C’mere,” he whispered, ducking into a laundry room in the hallway where they had been walking, then pulling her gently by the waist. Teresa followed guardedly, scanning the area for medical personnel until T hastily pushed the door closed behind them and locked it. He drew her toward him slowly, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her softly, sensually, his mouth lingering just above hers as he playfully licked, sucked and bit at her lower lip. “This is what I wanna do…” he breathed, Teresa instantly reading between the lines, her heart beating faster by the second. 

“Up here,” T grunted, tapping on the top of a running dryer, then motioning to a nearby step-stool. Teresa reluctantly used the stool to climb atop the dryer, T immediately yanking her scrubs and underwear down roughly and parting her thighs, the vibration of the dryer beneath her only serving to excite her further. Teresa gasped in surprise at his aggressive actions as he knelt on the stool between her legs, spreading them wide and proceeding to tongue at her clit playfully. T sucked on his own right index and middle fingers briefly, before resuming his oral foreplay, gradually adding his fingers, pushing them into Teresa’s now soaking wet pussy. 

“T...T...T!” Teresa panted repeatedly, in staccato yelps, as he intensified his erotic assault, mimicking exactly what he’d done to Teresa’s lips only moments before, while plunging his fingers more and more deeply into her, with increasing speed and force. “Mmmmm,” he hummed as he sucked on her clit rhythmically, mercilessly. Teresa moaned uncontrollably as T brought her closer and closer to her inevitable climax. T’s tongue stimulated her clit expertly, as he continued to pull it in and release it from his mouth in rapid, repetitive succession, the telltale tingle of orgasm washing over her, setting her engorged clit on fire, as he continued finger-fucking her like a champ. 

T drove his fingers deep inside her for a final time, his mouth and tongue sucking and swirling Teresa into oblivion. “Oh my God! Yes!” Teresa squealed recklessly, pulling wildly at T’s hair as she came so hard, she thought her head might explode. T laughed confidently, grabbing a clean towel to wipe his chin dry as Teresa gingerly lowered herself down from the dryer onto her still shaking legs, doing her best to collect herself as she pulled her pants up and straightened her clothes and hair, all of which had taken on a disheveled quality, after all she had just experienced. 

“Well…” Teresa smiled contentedly, admiring T’s rugged, good looks as her breathing slowed to something akin to normal. “Can’t wait to fix you up,” she winked. “Not yet,” he responded, confirming her suspicion that he had been cautioned against any such activity at this stage of recovery. “I’ll have to do some research,” she promised, vowing to satisfy him somehow. She wanted to do it right then, but she’d settle for the next day if it meant keeping him healthy, since she planned to see him all three days of her visit anyway. 

As the two made their way back to T’s room, Teresa checked her phone for the first time since her arrival. “A text from Petrov and a missed call from Dr. Lange,” she announced, immediately piquing T’s interest. “Petrov! What’s he want?” he asked, his uneasiness obvious and pronounced. “Who knows?” she responded, “Wants me to call him.” T rolled his eyes discontentedly, adding, “And the doctor?” “Mickey and Ian’s Doc in Baltimore. Hope everything’s okay. I’ll call her first!” Teresa answered, a look of concern on her face. “Good!” T sighed, appearing to be relieved, either that Petrov was not Teresa’s top priority or that Dr. Lange was a woman. Teresa wasn’t sure which, though she suspected it was the former. 

“There’s nothing there,” Teresa stated matter-of-factly, seeming, to T, to have read his mind. “Nothing but work and all the bullshit that goes with it...C’mere,” Teresa breathed, motioning for T to join her on the bed, where she was now sitting, poised to make her call to Dr. Lange. As T sat next to her, she turned toward him, looking into his warm, chocolate-brown eyes, moving in to kiss him softly, then whispering, “There’s no one, but you.”


	32. Zero to 60

Teresa had been up into the wee hours, researching a variety of topics, first and foremost being the safest way to satisfy T. Her initial inclination was to sit on him and slow fuck him until he got off, but she didn’t want to chance their getting carried away, reinjuring him and delaying his recovery. After reading from more websites than she could count, she decided on a blowjob, but worried about where the two could go, and still manage to keep him lying on his back, which she thought would be best. 

She opted not to decide on that part of the plan until after she had found answers to Dr. Lange’s question regarding Mickey and Ian’s marriage. She quickly discovered that only one applicant needed to be present to obtain the license, and that ID was recommended, but not required. There would be a 48 hour waiting period, after which a couple could be married. She knew the difficulty lay in either Ian or Mickey getting permission to leave the hospital, under the circumstances. 

She also understood that she needed to warn Dr. Lange about sharing this information with them, Mickey in particular, until she had found a way around this stumbling block. Mickey, a guy who had gone so far as to rat on the Cartel to get back into Ian’s arms, would not be denied this opportunity for the world, and would risk anything and everything, short of Ian’s life, to make it happen, which Teresa had understood ever since Ian had proposed. Mickey wasn’t letting this go!

Last on her list, courtesy of Petrov, was to find one of the feds she could trust, and broach the subject of Ian’s culpability in the Adolf mess. Petrov was absolutely beside himself over the conversation he’d had with Ball. He didn’t want to see Ian be prosecuted, especially since he was a key witness in two RICO cases that would help to at least partially exonerate the him and the prison itself, but also because he knew Ian was a decent person, who was so obviously acting in self-defense. 

Teresa had told him about the time Ian had worked to save the life of the Cartel member, who everyone believed, at the time, had been responsible for the attempted hit on Mickey in the kitchen. Clearly, Ian took his job as a medical professional seriously, including his pledge to “conserve life, alleviate suffering, do no harm, and encourage the quality and equal availability of emergency medical care.” How anyone could press criminal charges against him for protecting his own life when the threat to it was imminent, was beyond him.

The feds who were investigating at Stateville were so caught up in what they were doing there, he was all but certain that most didn’t even know who Ian was, something Petrov thought was best to keep that way, given the situation. The last thing he wanted was for them to open yet another federal investigation at his institution. 

Once Teresa had found all she could online, she shut her computer down for the night, collapsing onto the hotel bed, and passed out, fully clothed, until morning. After an all too brief slumber, she was up with the sun, showered, made up, and dressed to the nines in anticipation of her breakfast date with T. And boy was she hungry!  
__________________________________

“Good Morning, Mickey! And Ian! Welcome! I’m so glad to finally meet the man I’ve heard so much about!” Dr. Lange said with a sing-song voice and a sparkle in her eye. She was quite adept at putting on her ‘bubbly doctor face’, even when she was feeling less than chipper. In this case, she really was happy that Ian had finally arrived, and was more than ready to treat both Ian and Mickey. She did, however, feel a bit uneasy at first, talking to the men she had watched grind on each other less than 24 hours hours before. 

“Sorry I didn’t get a chance to see you before the end of my shift last night. I did stop by, but you were both...sleeping,” she lied, avoiding eye contact, lest her deception should be discovered. She didn’t know Ian yet, but she had already come to recognize how perceptive Mickey was, in the short time since he’d begun to open up to her. 

Mickey got up from his bed, reaching for his robe, then headed for the table where he usually sat with Dr. Lange during their sessions. These were the only times that he was permitted to get out of bed without first making a call to whomever had surveillance duty, since Dr. Lange always informed them, just before going to Mickey’s room for a session.

“So, the federal agents who are overseeing your care here have asked that I focus on your recollection of the events you will be testifying about in federal court. I’m assuming you both have at least a vague idea as to what I am referring?” she questioned, hating, with every fiber of her being, the idea that the focus of her treatment was being dictated to her. 

“I told them, however, that I first needed to get to know you both. Mickey, you and I have started, but Ian, I will need some time with you. And to that end,” she paused, pulling a tiny keyring from her pocket, “I have requested that you not be restrained. Part of what I do as a psychiatrist is to observe your natural reactions to things...your inclinations...the way you think...and what’s important to you,” she finished, glancing over at Mickey during her last few words. 

Mickey smiled like a fifth grader who was about to have recess for the first time in a week, as she removed the cuffs from Ian’s wrist and ankle, then responded, “Thanks, Doc! I’ll try my best to remember all that I can...and so will Ian!” 

Dr. Lange nodded in appreciation, adding, “I’m sure you will, Mickey. And I’m going to do all I can to help you both get well, not just for these trials, but for yourselves, and for each other.”

Ian sat up in his bed, freshly unencumbered and completely awestriken by this woman, this angel, whom he and Mickey were so blessed to have as their doctor. “Thank you, Dr. Lange. And I will do all I can to help, too,” Ian promised, smiling brightly as he eyed up his sexy fiance, already planning some extracurricular activities for later. 

“I think we should begin by addressing your depression, Ian,” Dr. Lange began, heading for the table where Mickey was sitting, Ian following as closely after her as possible, using various pieces of furniture and walls to aid him in his one-legged journey in nothing but his gown. 

Mickey immediately ran to Ian’s aid, acting as a crutch for him, as he held him tightly around his waist. “Thanks, man. I gotta get back to walking…” Ian trailed off, mumbling to himself.  
“And I assume I have your permission to discuss your medical condition in front of Mickey? I did see that he is on your HIPPA list,” she finished, stopping in front of a small closet from which she pulled a thin robe, then handing it to Ian, as Mickey helped him into the chair next to the one where he had been sitting. 

“Absolutely!” Ian answered without hesitation, as Mickey helped him on with his robe, “There’s nothing that can’t be said in front of him. He’s gonna be my husband, before you know it!” 

Dr. Lange sat down across from Mickey, who was absolutely beaming after Ian’s declaration. She smiled in return. “Okay, then,” she said softly, feeling hard-pressed to keep the wedding information from them, but heeding Teresa’s warning nonetheless, “Why don’t you tell me a bit about how you’ve been feeling lately, Ian?”

Ian looked over at Mickey with a giant grin on his face. “I feel fucking great!” he exclaimed, taking Mickey’s hand in his own. “Ever since I found out he was okay, and that I’d get to see him,” he added, pulling Mickey’s hand to his puckered lips and holding it there, the soft, warm feeling of Mickey's skin against his mouth coaxing a semi-boner between Ian’s legs.

“I see,” Dr. Lange responded, then asking, “So, you don’t feel any lingering effects of the deep depression you were in less than a week ago?”

“Nope,” Ian answered, leering over at Mickey, clearly undressing him with his eyes. “Did you notice a difference, once you started the IV medications?” she asked, continuing with what was, in Ian’s opinion, a pointless line of questioning. “I noticed a difference when I got to see HIM!” he replied, pulling Mickey close and kissing him on the cheek. “He’s what made me better! HIM! He always does!” Ian announced with great fervor, his emotions beginning to get the best of him.

Mickey’s face was aglow with a happiness that only Ian’s love could bring. Dr. Lange could see how much better Mickey was doing, so it made sense for Ian to be thriving as well. Her initial concern had been that, since he was diagnosed as bipolar and was taking medication for it, he might have still been suffering some of the symptoms of the debilitating depression that had him firmly in its grip so recently. 

Now, after meeting and observing him, she worried that his reunion with Mickey could bring on a manic episode. She didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but decided to address his medication regimen with him. “Ian, Dr. Steiner prescribed you Ketamine for the depression, in addition to your regular dosage of Lithium. How would you feel about weaning off the Ketamine?” she asked, being a doctor who believed in patients having an active role in decision-making, pertaining to their treatment. She felt that people often have a particular insight about themselves that is helpful in making sound treatment decisions. 

“Sounds good to me. In fact, if I would have had a say, I never would have been on it,” Ian admitted, Mickey appearing to be a bit taken aback. He knew that Ian had required additional meds to come out of his first depressive episode, back in the day, so it made sense to him that he might have needed it again.

“Ok, then, we will begin a slow wean, but I want you to tell me if you notice yourself feeling even the least bit ‘down’, okay?” Dr. Lange bargained. Ian nodded silently, his attention clearly on Mickey, rather than her, at this moment. His eyes moved slowly over Mickey’s face, his eyes drinking in Mickey’s beauty, his soul sensing the sincerity of the concerned look on his face. 

“It’ll all be fine, Mick. I promise. I feel really fine, and if we were alone…” Mickey shot him an uneasy glare, laced with a bit of anger at Ian’s indiscrete comment. He didn’t want the doctor to separate them, and thought she might, if she knew what they had done. Little did he know that she had actually watched them. 

“Well, Ian, I did want to discuss a few other things with you first, but since you brought that up,” Dr. Lange began nervously, “I...I...well, I can see about getting the surveillance cameras turned off. I’ll need a medical reason though, so I have to ask, do they make you feel uncomfortable to the point that they might impede my ability to treat you successfully? Because I knew the restraints did, and that was the rationale I gave for taking them off, combined with the idea that I felt you were not a flight risk,” she explained, pausing to acknowledge the bright smile that had erupted on Mickey’s face, then continuing, “So...do they?” she asked, doing her best to keep a serious look on her face, despite Mickey having begun to giggle.

“Oh hell yeah! Can’t even sleep. Feel like someone’s staring at me...all the time,” Ian ranted, only taking the question halfway seriously. “Only cuz they fuckin’ are!” Mickey interjected indignantly. 

“Alright then, I have my answer, and I’ll take care of it, but you both have to cooperate and give the feds as much as you can remember...And I’ll keep working on that with you both. But I think you’re right, Ian. Mickey is good for your health. And to that end, I am going to have an ortho doc come in to see you, first thing tomorrow, so you can get started on some PT for that leg. We need to get you walking. In the meantime, I’ll be ordering some crutches. 

“He’s all I need,” Ian protested, Mickey agreeing non-verbally. “Well, just in case you have to go somewhere without him…” Dr. Lange said, stopping mid-sentence as she realized the question Ian would be asking next.

“Like where? I’m not leaving him...EVER AGAIN!” Ian yelled, feeling himself beginning to tear up and immediately reaching for Mickey. Dr. Lange didn’t know how to respond, but she knew she had to say something. 

“Like to...to pick up a document,” she blurted out, wishing immediately that she could suck those words back into her mouth. 

“You mean like a Marriage Licence?” Mickey asked, jumping up from his seat, “Cuz I wanna go with him. Do it all at once!”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Dr. Lange said in a calm, even tone of voice, hoping to keep them both as relaxed as possible. “What’s that mean?” Mickey questioned, pushing his lower lip out into the most adorably pitiful pout. “Mickey, there’s a two-day waiting period, and I doubt you would both be able to go anyway. The Feds have denied every request I’ve made for you to leave here.” 

“When’d ya ever ask!!? How come I didn’t know about it!?” Mickey demanded, feeling his boiling blood rushing up the back of his neck, up to his ears, as his quick temper flared. 

“I asked when I didn’t think they were going to let Ian out,” she answered, “And then again when I found out about the marriage license,” she confessed, hoping to diffuse him quickly. She knew he could go from zero to crazed maniac in 60 seconds, and certainly didn’t want a repeat performance of that. 

Dr. Lange’s explanation seemed to cool Mickey’s jets, at least for the time being, although now he wanted to know why they wouldn’t let him go. Before he could even ask, Ian, sensing Mickey’s bewilderment as to why they would deny him, a free man, the right to go and obtain a marriage license, entwined his fingers with Mickey’s lovingly, then looked into Mickey’s eyes, speaking softly, 

“They are protecting you, Mick. There are people out there trying to find you, and…” Ian couldn’t finish his sentence, the reality of what he had just begun to share hitting him hard. Suddenly, his mind was flooded with with worries over what would happen after Mickey testified. What would be the feds’ motivation to protect him then? How would Mickey ever survive out in the world, unprotected and alone, while Ian finished his sentence? Would he even be able to visit him? 

 

Dr. Lange instantly picked up on Ian’s thought process, wondering how best to proceed. She knew there was no guarantee that the feds would consider having Ian go into Witness Protection with Mickey, under the current circumstances. Not only were they not married, but they were both intended witnesses in high profile federal cases. Housing them together, outside of their current situation could prove to be extremely dangerous, if not handled properly. 

Dr. Lange wondered if the feds would even entertain such a risk. If they were already married, on the other hand, it might be more difficult to deny them. She knew that, but didn’t want to share it until she knew she could find a way to get that done. She also understood that she didn’t have a lot of time.

 

“And what?!” Mickey asked, raising his voice, obviously getting himself worked up again, in response to the sudden nosedive Ian’s mood had taken. Dr. Lange feared Mickey was headed for one of his meltdowns and was also concerned about what was going on with Ian. What had started as such a positive morning was fast becoming a potential disaster.

“Ian...Mickey,” Dr. Lange began in what came out in barely a whisper, “You both know that being witnesses in these cases is dangerous, but this is the path we are on, so all we can do is what we can do. There are options. But before I try to tackle those with you, because I really do want to help, I am going to suggest that you talk with a lawyer. And I don’t mean one from the U.S. Attorney’s office,” she paused, pulling her phone from her pocket. Ian and Mickey just looked at each other, each beautiful face expressing apprehension, foreboding, even, but also love---a love that was bigger than any of the bullshit they had or would ever have to endure, and that seemed to flow perpetually from one to the other, then back again. 

Dr. Lange searched for a contact in her phone, then quickly drafted and sent a text, “Gayle, I have two young patients that could really use your advice. Please call me back ASAP.” 

Once she had finished, she looked up at Ian and Mickey, who sat before her, Mickey appearing to be miraculously calm, as Ian held his head snugly to his chest, Ian’s nose buried in the sweet-smelling crown of Mickey’s head, his fingers playing softly in the jet black hair at the nape of Mickey's neck, both sets of eyes closed---peaceful.

“I’m going to my next session,” Dr. Lange interrupted reluctantly, “I’ll stop in at lunchtime. Hopefully, Gayle will have called me back and we can set something up. I AM going to help you,” she promised, adding the words, “get married” under her breath as she left the room.

_______________________________

“Karen!” Petrov barked loudly, clearly distraught and having startled her. Karen flinched, jumping up from her desk nervously and heading for his office. “Yes,” she responded softly, as she peaked her head into his space, making and maintaining eye contact in an attempt to read the thought behind his wild expression. 

“I have to go!” he growled, pulling his coat on hurriedly. “Cancel everything! Just tell them all I got sick,” he muttered, picking up a large briefcase and heading for the door. “Will do,” Karen responded, opting not to question him. Sometimes ignorance is bliss...


	33. Hooked On A Feeling

“C’mon! Let’s get outta here!” T exclaimed, already dressed in sweats and raring to go the moment Teresa arrived. Her plans to blow T in a closet somewhere in the nursing facility were immediately abandoned in favor of T’s idea to go out for breakfast. T revealed that the doctor on call had signed off on a request he had made to leave the building to dine with his ‘friend’, whom he had identified as being a registered nurse, capable of caring for him, should he have any medical issues. 

Teresa, overwhelmed with joy and excitement, took a deep breath, then began searching on her phone for places to ‘eat’. Little did T know that she was actually hunting for hotels with room service. Within minutes, Teresa had found their destination and made a preliminary online reservation, completely unbeknownst to T. 

“Let’s go!” Teresa squealed, taking T by the hand and helping him to his feet. “So, where are we going?” he asked, impressed by her 'take-charge' attitude, as she guided him swiftly out the door of his room and down the hall to the elevator. 

“You’ll see,” she answered with a wide grin. “It’s a surprise!”

“I got it. I got it,” T insisted as they entered the elevator, stubbornly demonstrating his ability to walk unassisted. 

“Oh, you’re gonna get it,” she breathed seductively as the elevator doors closed behind them, leaving the two alone together, at last. T smiled devilishly as Teresa gently pushed him against the elevator wall, stood on her toes as she wrapped her arms around his neck, and moved in to press her lips lightly against his. Before he could react, she abruptly backed away at the sound of the elevator opening into the lobby. 

That brief, skin-to-skin contact was enough to give T an embarrassing hard-on, just in time for him to showcase for anyone and everyone walking by the facility that morning. Luckily, T’s public display was short-lived, since Teresa had also arranged for an Uber to pick them up within minutes of their exit from the building. 

Once in the backseat of the roomy sedan, the ample space of which afforded T a smooth entry, he wasted no time, promptly wedging his hand between Teresa’s knees, making his way slowly upward, using his thumbnail to press firmly into her tender inner thigh as he did. Teresa shuddered, inhaling sharply, caught completely by surprise, and obviously revved up over T’s brazen advances, along with the ingenious plan she had so quickly devised, all without T having a clue. Teresa wiggled impatiently as T continued to tease her with his skillful fingers, doing her best to remain quiet, so as not to attract the attention of the driver.

“How long do we have?” T whispered breathlessly, amid the impassioned kisses the two had begun sharing as he pressed further into her, his knuckles massaging her clit masterfully, as he worked up to a steady, relentless, rhythmic finger-fucking that brought her closer to climax with every pass, threatening to nudge her over the edge at any moment. 

“Not sure,” she panted huskily, grabbing in desperation at his sturdy forearm to stop him before it was too late. She had decided, in this moment, that she was going to take their encounter to the next level, since they would have a room, offering them plenty of time and privacy. 

T smiled into her open mouth, humming the word, “Good,” as he slowed his pace, which only got her that much hotter. “Stop...stop…” she murmured, her l ust-filled eyes conveying an entirely different message. 

T sat up, pulling back, a bewildered look on his face. “I wanna wait,” she whispered softly, leaning in to put her mouth up to his ear and taking the opportunity to teasingly tongue the inside of it. 

“Wh...What?” he stammered, aroused and confused at the same time. 

“Well, I might as well tell ya,” she began, a pained note of resignation in her voice, “I got us a room,” finishing her sentence with a sheepish grin. Somehow, spelling it all out to him in advance had proven to be a bit awkward for her, but he put her at ease in an instant, with a hearty laugh. 

“Thank God!” he sighed contentedly, attempting to will away his increasingly uncomfortable erection. “I’ve wanted some real private time with you for a while now.”

As her grin faded, her soaking wet pussy still burning for him, yearning for his magical touch, she wondered why the hell she had asked him to stop. She stuck with her decision though, crossing her legs and quivering with anticipation as the Uber neared their destination. 

No sooner did they pull up in front of the Hyatt Regency, Washington, D.C., than T’s phone rang. “Oh shit,” he muttered contemptuously under his breath. 

“Who is it?” Teresa asked, T already having answered by the time she asked. 

“Yes...Yes...I understand. I’ll be there soon...I’m...uh...a little ways. The nurse said it would be okay...I...okay,” was T’s end of the conversation, after which Teresa asked again, 

“Who was it?’

“No one,” T replied, “Let’s just go in.”

Just then, Teresa’s phone buzzed from inside her purse. She reached in and silenced it, then began the process of helping T out of the car.

____________________________

The shocking headline lit up in Karen’s notifications as she was scrolling through her contacts, looking for Teresa’s number. She had planned to ask her if she knew anything about Petrov’s hurried departure. She had fought off the urge to call the night before, giving Petrov a chance to possibly contact her himself, but to no avail.

Now she sat paralyzed, staring at her phone screen. “Dismembered Body Found in Lake Michigan”. While murders weren’t all that uncommon around the City of Chicago, she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that this one, in particular, had something to do with the recent events at Stateville, and quite possibly with Petrov’s impromptu exit the day before. 

She opened the article, holding her breath in anticipation of a horrific revelation of some kind, but there weren’t many details yet. Forensics was going to be attempting to identify the body, as well as determine how long it had been in the water...blah...blah...blah. 

After closing the article, Karen resumed her search for Teresa’s number, then called, hoping she might have some answers. Unfortunately, there was no answer. Her phone rang and rang, before going to voicemail, after which Karen said, simply, “Call me ASAP!”  
_________________________________________

Dr. Lange had barely pulled the door shut behind her, before Ian piped up, “I need a shower, man.” 

Mickey grinned like a Cheshire cat and immediately ran to the bathroom, throwing a tube of lube he had scored from Dr. Lange up onto the shower shelf, turning on the water and adjusting the temperature until it was perfect, then running out with the shower/toileting seat that had been stored beside the shower. It was brand new; Mickey never had any need for it, and it had wheels, making it the perfect vehicle for transporting Ian to the shower safely and with minimal discomfort. 

Once there, Mickey helped Ian remove his robe and gown, before doing the same himself. He looked at Ian’s leg, wincing as he imagined how painful it must have been to have someone rear back and kick it, mid-air, with enough force to break both bones. Mickey ran his index finger down Ian’s thigh, over his knee, then stopped at the air-splint. “Ya need that covered, huh?” he wondered out loud. 

“Probably not a bad idea,” Ian replied, adding, “I’d like to take the fucking thing off, but don’t wanna risk fucking it up.” 

Mickey turned and pulled the plastic bag from the trash can, then slipped it up over Ian’s splint, tucking it in the top. Ian smiled down at Mickey, as he crouched at his feet. There was nothing in the world Mickey wouldn’t do for Ian, and Ian knew it. He really wanted to show his appreciation for all that Mickey had gone through, just to be with him. 

“Hey, Mick,” he began, Mickey looking up at him, his crystal blue eyes, filled with love and desire, melting Ian instantly. Ian took a moment to refocus his thoughts, which had immediately digressed to all of the hot positions he wanted to fuck Mickey in, once his leg was back to 100%. 

“When I’m done with my shower, I want you to choose what we do---anything you want,” Ian smiled briefly, then noticed, as Mickey stood up, that his face had fallen, and was sporting an adorably distressing pout. “What?” Ian asked, perplexed. 

Mickey said nothing, turning away to get behind Ian so he could push him under the stream of the shower. “Mick, this water is perfect!” Ian remarked as he began to wash his own body, focusing first on his torso and underarms, but then quickly moving on to his genitals. “You thinking of what you wanna do?” Ian asked, completely at a loss as to what Mickey’s pouty silence was about, and hoping to get him talking. 

Still nothing.

Mickey took the shampoo bottle from the shelf and squirted some into his hands, then began washing Ian’s hair gently, taking care not to put too much pressure on his fresh scar, which Mickey easily identified, since Ian’s hair on that part of his head had been shaved away and was now growing in, a short, magnificently vibrant, red patch, marked by the scar itself. It was a reminder of the trouble Mickey had caused him with his selfish desire to get him back, but also of their resiliency, their unshakable will to be together.

Mickey ran a finger over it softly, still completely silent, as his mind flashed back to the pitifully heart-wrenching condition Ian was in after the beating he had taken at the hands of the Cartel, his face battered, broken, barely-recognizable, his nose busted, his lips split, his eyes nearly swollen shut. 

“Okay...what the fuck’s the matter?” Ian finally asked, becoming genuinely concerned.

“Ian...I’m so fuckin’ sorry for all I put ya through,” Mickey lamented, rubbing Ian’s scalp in the most comforting of ways. “Never shoulda…”

“Don’t fucking say it!” Ian interrupted sternly. “Come here!” he demanded, reaching up to pull at Mickey’s arms to get him to move where he could see him. 

“Okay! Okay! At least let me rinse…” Mickey trailed off to a mumble, pulling back on Ian’s shoulders to get his head under the water, “Close your eyes.”

Ian complied with an impatient huff. Mickey rinsed Ian’s hair hurriedly, then straddled him. Ian immediately pulled Mickey toward him, leaning in to kiss him passionately. “I wanted this…” Ian breathed between the white hot kisses he had begun planting all over Mickey’s gorgeously pale, incredibly pained face, “More than anything!”

Mickey’s expression softened as he tenderly captured Ian’s lips with his own, deepening the kiss while reaching for Ian’s long, thick, rock-hard cock. 

“Mick...” Ian moaned into his mouth as he felt the tingle of goosebumps sweep over him. Mickey pumped his slick hand slowly over the length of Ian’s cock, eliciting one enraptured groan after another, until Mickey’s hunger for Ian could no longer be stemmed. 

Mickey broke the kiss, lowering himself to kneel on the shower floor in front of Ian, taking the tip of Ian’s cock into his hot, sexy mouth, voraciously working his way down the shaft. Mickey’s body reacted instantaneously to the familiarly enticing scent and taste of his beautiful man, who had endured so much for him, his own cock stiffening as he took more of Ian’s luscious length with each sensual bob. He was determined to make it all worth it, everyday for the rest of their lives. 

Ian wove his long fingers into Mickey’s shiny, wet hair, taking notice of the waterproof bandages that covered what must have been Mickey’s incisions. They were low, just above where his neck met his hairline. He steered clear of those, ruffling his fingers repetitively through the hair on the top of his head, as Mickey’s masterful oral manipulation of his ample manhood became more and more torturous. 

Mickey lubed up his index and middle fingers, then brushed the palm of his hand gently along Ian’s bottom, which protruded slightly through the hole in the toilet seat, until his middle finger found Ian’s pristine hole. He began rubbing both fingers against it with intention, all while continuing to aptly suck the full length of Ian’s colossal cock to the back of his throat and beyond, swirling his tongue around the shaft, then up over the sensitive slit, Ian now desperately digging his fingertips into Mickey’s back. 

“Yesss,” Ian hissed as Mickey’s index finger gingerly broke the barrier, spurring Mickey on to double his efforts on both fronts. Mickey delved more deeply into Ian’s ass, gradually adding his middle finger and a bit more force, enough to nudge his golden nugget, just slightly, each time. He also began lightly, playfully grazing Ian’s bountiful cock with his teeth intermittently, the combination pushing Ian to the next level, Mickey’s relentless, ever-increasing prostate prodding finally sending Ian through the fucking roof. “Oh fuck! Mick...I...can’t...FUCK!!!” he squealed, Mickey having worked him up to the point of near delirium. 

Ian gripped Mickey’s hair in his fists, yanking wildly at it, his hot, needful grunts spilling down over Mickey as he continued to move his mouth expertly over him, his fingers into him, Ian's cock so terribly engorged, he could scarcely breathe. Suddenly, Ian somehow mustered the mental clarity to yell, “STOP!!”, startling Mickey. 

“...’s wrong?” Mickey breathed, dropping Ian's mammoth member from his mouth and staring up at him through his fantastically lush, dark lashes. 

“I...I wanna cum in that sweet ass of yours!" Ian whined. "Bring it to me...PLEASE!!” he all but begged. Mickey turned, immediately obliging him, bending forward to present his showstopper of an ass to his covetous lover. Ian's breath caught in his throat momentarily, as his eyes took in this most awe-inspiring sight. He grasped Mickey firmly at the hips, tugging at them until Mickey’s divine derriere was perfectly aligned with his face, after which he cupped Mickey’s gloriously round cheeks in his hands, squeezing them lightly, then pulled them apart to reveal what Ian considered to be the most pleasingly pink, puckered path to paradise he’d ever laid eyes on, eaten---or fucked, for that matter. 

He lunged forward, tonguing aggressively at the flawless ring surrounding it, while soaking his fingers with lube in great anticipation. Mickey moaned softly, fighting the nearly irresistible urge to rut backward against Ian’s face, the heavenly texture and movements of Ian’s tongue driving Mickey to take himself in hand. “So fucking sweet,” Ian breathed as his tongue darted expertly in and out of Mickey’s mouthwatering hole. 

“Want you...so fuckin’ bad,” Mickey panted as Ian began to intersperse fingers with tongue, adeptly using his other hand to caress Mickey’s tender balls, riling Mickey up like nobody's business and taking great pleasure in Mickey's intense vocal and bodily reactions. Both cocks were throbbing to the point of agony as Ian continued to suck, lick and tongue-fuck Mickey’s ass with reckless abandon. Finally, Mickey, his head buzzing, so fucking high on Ian, so utterly desperate for him, couldn't stop himself from begging, “IAN! PLEASE...I’ll...I'll sit on ya...I'll...I'll do...ANYTHING!!”

Ian immediately stopped all he'd been doing, spinning Mickey around to face him in one decisive, fluid motion. “That how you want it?” he asked, gasping for air, his fingers pressing into the milky-white flesh of Mickey's buttocks, his chest heaving, his heart banging wildly against the inside of his chest, every nerve in his body on edge, craving the exquisite privilege of feeling Mickey from the inside out, his velvety smooth skin, his hot, tight insides trembling, squeezing him to perfection, his delicious tongue dancing with his own. 

Mickey was so fucking aroused, he could no longer speak, instead gathering his wits and somehow guiding Ian to a standing position, then maneuvering him through a 180-degree turn that allowed Mickey to kneel on the chair, while still leaving room for Ian to rest the knee of his bad leg beside his own. He then grabbed the lube and quickly greased up Ian’s monstrous cock from between his legs, wiping the excess over his own waiting hole. 

Now he was ready to talk. “Ya said I could decide what we do...Think you can do this?” he questioned pleadingly, though he was quite confident that this was well within Ian’s current capabilities, and most definitely in his wheelhouse, under normal circumstances. 

“Oh fuck yeah, Mick!” Ian purred into Mickey’s ear sensually, sending a long, slow shiver up Mickey’s spine. Ian, despite his painfully swollen cock, took a moment to stretch Mickey a bit more with his fingers, recognizing the difficulty Mickey might have in accommodating his massive unit, without adequate preparation, particularly since it had been a while.

Mickey moaned and panted as Ian eased himself into him, Ian licking and sucking ardently at the silky, sensitive skin on Mickey’s neck, his ravenous mouth leaving its red, blotchy trademarks in its wake. “Oh...Mick...such an in-fucking-credible ass you have,” Ian murmured as he worked himself deeper and deeper into Mickey. 

“Oh, FUCK YEAH!!” Mickey began to almost scream repeatedly, his knuckles turning white from the force he was now exerting on the back of the chair. Ian knew he’d hit the fucking jackpot---Mickey’s prostate—-he could feel it in Mickey’s movements, hear it in his thick, raspy moans.

Ian fucked Mickey mercilessly, amid the passionately ecstatic cries that now included Ian’s name. “FUCK!!” Ian wailed, Mickey’s clenching, quivering ass doing a real number on him as well. He grabbed Mickey’s thick, sticky dick from his own hand, adding a generous coat of lube and stroking it to the same fierce rhythm.

He knew Mickey was about to explode, which made Mickey’s declaration just that much more pleasurable. “Damnit, Ian!! Gonna fucking CUM!!” 

“Indeed you are,” Ian laughed in response, biting down hard on his lower lip to hold off his own climax, just so he could fully experience the magical intensity of Mickey’s. Ian continued to fuck Mickey hard, through his convulsive, mind-blowing orgasm, his body shaking wildly under Ian's, his cum spewing forcefully onto the shower wall in front of them, Ian immediately letting loose deep inside Mickey’s ass, once he’d finished him. 

“Fuck, Gallagher!! Off the fuckin’ charts INTENSE!!” Mickey howled, somehow managing to navigate Ian back into the shower chair before collapsing onto his knees, completely spent, his head resting on Ian’s thighs. 

“C’mere,” Ian whispered, fighting to catch his breath, coaxing Mickey up onto his lap, then staring intently into Mickey’s sparkling, fucked out, blue eyes. “Do you have any idea how much you fucking mean to me?” Ian panted, their vigorous romp rendering him utterly exhausted. Mickey nodded wordlessly, totally mesmerized by Ian’s hauntingly beautiful, green eyes, absolutely afire with lust, their yellow accents aglow with a perpetual longing. An insatiable need. Mickey could feel it---powerful, overwhelming, all-consuming---LOVE. Ian’s love. 

“Seriously...Do you? " Ian asked again, his expectant voice lulling Mickey back to reality. "Know how fucking much I love you?"

“Yeah, I fuckin’ do! Don’t get why, but that don’t matter! Just lucky for me, ‘s all,” Mickey answered, still a bit winded. “And I love you even fuckin' more," he added, "Now, if ‘s okay with you, I’m gonna finish washin’ ya up, so we can get outta here before we both turn inta fuckin’ prunes. That alright?” Mickey proposed, somehow managing to mobilize his worn-out, freshly-fucked, still-trembling form.

“Yeah, okay,” Ian smiled triumphantly. He knew he’d just sent Mickey to the fucking moon, and he loved it! So much so, in fact, that he promised himself he’d do it everyday if he could, for as long as they were so blessed as to be together, which he hoped would be forever. 

“Ya know I’m gonna marry your ass,” Mickey chuckled as he washed and caressed Ian’s dick lovingly. “And after that,” he growled, grasping it tightly in his fist, “This shit is all mine.”

“Already is, Mick,” Ian responded with a grin, ‘Already is.”  
`


	34. Please Leave A Message

T wrapped his arm tightly around Teresa’s waist as they exited the Uber. His phone, which he had switched over to vibrate, buzzing annoyingly in his pocket. Though he had been doing his best to ignore it, in the hope that Teresa wouldn’t hear it, by the time they had reached the elevator and it went off again, she shot him an exasperated look. Before she had the chance to verbalize her discontent, her phone started to do its thing. 

“Let’s just shut them down. We can deal with them after…” T breathed into Teresa’s ear huskily, simultaneously reaching into his coat pocket to turn his phone off. 

“Okay,” Teresa answered with a nervous smile. She had waited for this opportunity for so long, through all sorts of trials and tribulations, and yet, just as the most highly anticipated event in her recent life was about to finally happen, she was scared to death. She knew T was supposed to be back at the facility, though he’d avoided giving her even the tiniest bit of a clue as to why, and she couldn’t seem to shake the gnawing feeling that something was amiss. 

Teresa and T approached the front desk at the hotel, obtaining the key cards to their room without incident, then heading straight for the elevator, Teresa’s phone buzzing yet again as they stood and waited. Now it was T’s turn to give a look, which he did, managing to get Teresa to pull her phone out to disable it, without so much as a word.

As Teresa removed the phone from her purse, in order to be sure she was, in fact, shutting it down, she noticed two missed calls and a text from Karen, reading, simply, “Call me,” just as Petrov’s had the night before. She had also missed a call from what she was pretty sure was Petrov’s flip phone, though there was no message or text. 

Teresa shut the phone down, secure in the belief that both were merely following up on Petrov’s request to find a federal agent she could trust, all in connection with obtaining information about the bogus case Ball was apparently thinking of filing against Ian. She knew Ball couldn’t file on the weekend and, frankly, was a little bit pissed about being bothered during her ‘T Time’, with what she termed as ‘work-related shit’. It wasn’t that she didn’t plan to get a line on a good agent; it was that she said she would, and that she’d let Petrov know. Right now, she just wanted to be with T, and that was exactly what she intended to do. 

Once Teresa and T found themselves in their hotel room, alone together, it was as though the rest of the world ceased to exist. Once again, T took the offensive, pushing her backward onto the bed as he enveloped her securely in his muscular arms, his broad chest pressed firmly against hers, their lips locking in a smoldering kiss that had her pulse thrumming through her entire body, head to toe, and everywhere in between. 

Her skin was on fire, burning from the inside out, as he slowly removed her blouse, his fingers slipping inside her bra, twisting her nipple playfully, then unfastening the bra, lowering his mouth to nibble and suck on her freshly-exposed, breathtakingly beautiful breasts, both nipples erect, her body arching up eagerly to meet his. Without missing a beat, his mouth intensifying its onslaught on her blushing globes, he hiked her skirt up over her hips, promptly tearing her underwear off, his tongue then trailing its way down the midline of her taut stomach, over her navel, then stopping at her pubic bone, his puckered lips sucking intently just above her throbbing clit. 

Teresa feathered her fingers desperately through T’s soft, sexy hair, which had grown in quite nicely from the high-and-tight he normally sported for work, her breath heavy, her heart racing, her begging beehive dripping with anticipation and want. 

T knew he had her right where he wanted her, but he wasn’t ready to give in just yet, though his rock-hard erection begged its own release as he grinded himself involuntarily against the edge of the bed. 

Slowly, painstakingly, he traced a circle around Teresa’s clit with his tongue, purposely avoiding it, watching her squirm impatiently as he haltingly began to rub a finger over her sopping, wet hole. T snickered evilly, blowing lightly on her clit as he continued teasing her with his tongue and finger, Teresa full-on doing her best to fuck his face at this point, her hips jutting upward in utter desperation.

“T…” she gasped, amid the short, rapid breaths that now escaped from her parted, trembling lips. T climbed up her body, smiling down at her as he stripped away her remaining clothes, then lowered his pants to his knees and began rolling his powerful hips against her naked form, his substantial, now-leaking cock, rubbing relentlessly against her thigh, T’s intended target. 

“Please…” she panted in sheer torment, fearing her forced friction against T’s abs might just be enough to bring on her climax prematurely, “I...need you…NOW!”

T peered down into her lust-crazed hazel eyes, a seductive smirk playing at his lips. Teresa had all but forgotten her plan to sit on T, to take care in avoiding anything that might be too strenuous for him. Clearly, he was feeling quite well, toying with Teresa and enjoying it richly. “Hmmmm...I don’t think you’re quite ready,” he hissed sadistically, halting his movements almost entirely, then stroking her inner thigh with his thumb, using a feather’s touch. 

“Fuck you!!” Teresa screamed, making a move to roll him over onto his back, T quickly and easily overpowering her. He grabbed her forcefully by the arms, pinning them over her head roughly with one hand, then smashing his body against hers, kissing her hard, his tongue delving deep into her mouth as she writhed wantonly beneath him. 

“T!” Teresa shrieked, her body completely wracked with frustrated desire, her mouth hungrily latching itself onto the tender skin of his vulnerable neck as he continued to taunt her unrelentingly, seemingly impervious to her attempts to hasten his advances. “FUCK ME!!!!!” she howled.

Hot, angry, tears poured from Teresa’s face, T having worked her up into a near breakdown. T, realizing how far he’d pushed her, and himself, abruptly let go of her wrists, moving his right hand down between her legs and thumbing her clit in a smooth, circular motion that had Teresa moaning uncontrollably within seconds. 

Teresa could feel herself giving way. It was coming, and she couldn’t stop it. Waves of ethereal pleasure cascading over her. “T…” she shuddered, T finally spreading her open and guiding himself into her, her body’s resistance against his girth eased greatly by the tidal wave of excitement that flowed from her.

“Fuck...yesssss….” Teresa cried out as their bodies collided tempestuously, T’s ample manhood filling her up, enticing her, massaging her, pleasuring her, over and over, her entire being, at long last, overcome with her rhapsodic release as he fucked her masterfully. He watched intently as her whole body jolted violently under him, her orgasm so intense she drew blood as she dug her fingernails viciously into his back. 

T hastened his pace, too far gone to do anything else, as he neared his colossal, inevitable eruption. “So...A-FUCKING-MAZING!!!” he hissed into her ear, her hips bucking wildly, countering his final, explosive thrusts. His mind was reeling, his brain floating in an ecstatic fog of pure bliss. “I love you…” he muttered into the pillow as he blew his load deep inside her, immediately thinking better of it. Had she heard him? Was she on birth control? Did any of it even matter? He loved her. Now what?  
________________________________

Mickey had gotten Ian tucked back into his bed for a much needed nap, after what had been more action than he’d seen in quite a while. He had really exerted himself, and Mickey insisted that he rest. Ian wasn’t the only one who had overdone it, Mickey ending up falling asleep as well, safely tucked into Ian’s body, Ian’s gangly left arm and leg draped over him lovingly, their left hands interlaced, as had often been their habit.

Dr. Lange knocked, then entered, their exhaustion leaving them both oblivious to her presence. She smiled softly as she took in the sight of the two angelic men, sleeping peacefully, their bodies beautifully entangled. She hated to do it, but she had to break it to them. 

“Mickey…” she spoke softly, having learned from previous experience not to touch him in order to wake him, the outcome always being his nearly jumping out of his skin, the result, she was certain, of some type of abuse, though she hadn’t dared to broach that subject with him, given all of the other extensive work they still had to do, and his reluctance to do it. 

Mickey’s eyes blinked open slowly, focusing on the kind face in front of him as she began to speak again, “Agent Charles is here. He says it’s urgent that you accompany him to his office.” 

“Wha...What’s this about?” Mickey questioned, a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins at lightning speed, his heart beating through his chest, his entire body beginning to shake as he sat up, twisting in Ian’s direction to see if he was awake. 

“He didn’t share much. Only that it was of vital importance,” she answered, leaving ‘to your safety and well-being’ off the end of her explanation. She didn’t want to scare him any more than she obviously already had. 

“Can he go with me?” Mickey asked, pointing to an adorable, still-sleeping Ian, though Dr. Lange could see by the forlorn look in Mickey’s eyes that he already knew the answer. 

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” she responded with a note of sincere regret in her voice. “Good news, though. They have arranged for a physical therapist to visit him in his room daily, for as long as he’s here,” she added, hoping to lessen the mental anguish that Mickey was most certainly experiencing. 

“Ya said that lawyer was gonna call,” Mickey growled, taking zero comfort in hearing that Ian would see a physical therapist. HE wanted to be Ian’s therapist! He needed to be with him! He wanted to get the wedding arrangements made. The very thought of leaving Ian, even for a short appointment, scared the shit out of him. The last time he had done that, they had ended up apart for what had seemed like forever. And after all that had happened at Stateville, he trusted cops and attorneys even less than he had before, if that was even possible.

After Mickey’s outburst, Ian began to stir, reaching for Mickey instinctively. Mickey repositioned himself so that Ian could hold him once again, hoping he might be able to sleep for just a little bit longer. He knew Ian needed his rest, and that he hadn’t been sleeping well during the time they had been separated. 

“Mick…” Ian mumbled into Mickey’s neck as he pressed his nose against it, inhaling deeply, Mickey’s familiar, comforting scent lulling him back to sleep almost instantly. 

Dr. Lange grimaced as the thought of Mickey not returning crossed her mind. She had been told that she would continue to see him, but that she may have to be transported to an alternate location. Something about Mickey’s situation had changed suddenly---and the feds weren’t making Dr. Lange privy to any of the details. Of that much, she was certain.  
________________________________

Once back inside the nursing facility, Teresa and T walked hurriedly to the elevator. They had barely spoken since they’d finished fucking, their excursion now veiled in uncertainty, following their reconnecting with reality via their cell phones, not to mention T’s spontaneous declaration. T was quite concerned with what seemed to be unreasonable impatience on the part of whatever government agent was trying to track him down. He was also worried over whether Teresa had heard him, and, if so, what she was thinking. She hadn’t said a word about it, but seemed to be behaving oddly. 

Meanwhile, Teresa had received two more calls from what she was now sure was Petrov’s flip phone, along with a text from Karen, simply reading, “!” Still no messages, voice or text, from Petrov, which she found to be quite strange. She was more than a little bit concerned with Karen’s newest text, but didn’t want to make any calls until T was safely back at the facility. She was still waiting to find out what was going on there. It seemed, from his end of his earlier phone conversation, that there was an urgent need for his return, but he hadn’t shared why. She had chalked it up to a power-hungry agent or administrator, but after observing him as he listened to his additional messages, she thought it could be something more. 

She was so preoccupied with the odd set of communications they had both received, that she’d put her feelings for T out of her mind for the moment. They were just far too intense to deal with, until she had explanations for all of the mysterious calls and texts that had come in.

As they exited the elevator on T’s floor, Teresa prepared to excuse herself temporarily, in order to make the necessary calls, but was determined to first find out the reasoning behind the demands for his immediate return. 

A nurse approached the couple, jarring both of them from their inner thoughts, “Terrence, District Attorney Ball is here to see you. He insisted on waiting. He’s in your room.”


	35. M.I.A.

T stormed off toward his room, guns blazing. After hearing that it was Ball who had caused all of the interruptions during his time with Teresa, he was dead set on giving him a piece of his mind. Teresa, also irritated by Ball’s presence and none too eager to come face to face with his ugly mug, decided to take a moment to talk with the nurse on duty about the plan for T’s release from the facility, given her new, intimate knowledge of just how well T was recovering. 

The nurse, Alina, obviously fresh out of nursing school, young and gorgeous, began by gushing about what a pleasure it had been to count T among her first few patients. She shared his progress over the past week, her assessment concurring with Teresa’s---he was ready to be discharged. However, Teresa was surprised to hear that T’s release was not being left to his doctor, but rather the federal agents who had arranged for his admission. Teresa’s clarifying questions were met with shoulder shrugs and a whole lot of ‘I don’t know’ responses. 

Finally, Alina suggested that Teresa talk with Ball, assuming he must be affiliated with the upcoming case in which T was to testify. Teresa considered explaining to Alina that Ball had virtually nothing to do with the case, now that it had become a RICO case against the AB. 

Then, all of a sudden, it hit her---What the fuck was Ball doing there? It just didn’t make sense, under the circumstances. As she understood it, Ball’s only involvement in the case was as a potential witness, and a reluctant one at that. He wouldn’t have any business pertaining to T. Sure, he was investigating the possibility of filing a case against Ian and the prison for Ian’s killing of Adolf, but T had absolutely no knowledge of that, other than what Teresa had shared with him during one of her visits. 

She abruptly ended her conversation with Alina, then marched into T’s room, determined to get to the bottom of the reason behind Ball’s visit, only to find the room empty, both men seeming to have disappeared without a trace. Then she noticed T’s phone sitting on the side table, next to his bed. 

She knew T couldn’t have gone far without his phone, so she sat down, taking the opportunity to return Karen’s phone calls and texts. Karen picked up after a half-ring. “Teresa!” she yelled, her voice filled with panic, “Why didn’t you call me back sooner?! Have you heard from Petrov? Have you been following the news? Did you know they found pieces of a body in Lake Michigan?!” 

“Whoa...Karen. Slow down. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back right away. I was with T. He’s doing much better, so...Anyway, Petrov tried calling me a few times, I think…” Teresa responded haltingly.

“What do you mean, ‘You think’?” Karen interjected, the pitch and volume of her voice ever increasing. 

Now Teresa was in a quandary. She was pretty sure that no one at Stateville, other than herself, had any knowledge of Petrov’s flip-phone. She had also surmised that she was the only one Petrov had asked to talk to the feds about Ball’s case against Ian. But now, with Karen so worried, she had to say something to calm her. 

“I got a new phone,” Teresa lied, “and haven’t entered all of my Contacts yet. But yes, I’m pretty sure it was him.”

“That’s really weird!” Karen replied, sounding at least a little bit relieved. “He left work early on Friday in a real hurry. Told me to cancel everything and tell everyone he was sick,” Karen paused, taking a breath, “And he hasn’t answered any of my calls since,” she added slowly, obviously still trying to piece some kind of plausible explanation together. At least, she figured, he was alive. 

Now Teresa’s heart was in her throat. Maybe he wasn’t! Anyone who had possession of the phone could have made the calls. That would certainly explain why there weren’t any messages, text or voice, although she wasn’t sure he would have left any. This was the first time she hadn’t answered when he’d used that phone. 

“Probably just wanting to know how T is doing,” Teresa reasoned to Karen dismissively, attempting to end the conversation as quickly as possible without raising any suspicion in Karen’s mind.

“But that still…” Karen began, Teresa cutting her off. 

“Karen, I gotta go...I’ll call ya back,” Teresa sputtered, ending the call before Karen could say anything else. 

Teresa pulled up what she was nearly positive was Petrov’s number on her phone, preparing to call and see who, if anyone, would answer, when she received a text from the number, “Where are you?”

Teresa stood up, looking around T’s empty room, wondering if she dared to text back. What if someone other than Petrov had the phone? He’d never sent a question via text before, but then again, she’d never ignored his calls before. Her stomach started to churn as she began to entertain the possibility of the body in Lake Michigan actually belonging to Petrov. She surely wouldn’t want to give her whereabouts away, just in case it wasn’t Petrov on the other end of the phone. 

She didn’t know what to do, and the people she would normally consult, T and Petrov, were both unavailable to her, at present. She tucked her phone away apprehensively, deciding it might be best not to open any communications via Petrov’s flip-phone until she talked it over with T. But where the fuck was T? She paced back and forth in the room, her nerves finally getting the best of her. She reluctantly walked out to the nurse’s station, hoping to see T and Ball somewhere down the hall, or perhaps exiting the elevator.

No such luck. “Have you seen T?” she asked Alina, who had just hung up the phone at the station. “I just sent a call back to his room. Thought he must still be in there with Mr. Ball,” Alina answered, looking puzzled. 

“No...I haven’t seen them. After we talked, I went into T’s room, but they weren’t there,” Teresa explained, adding, “I’m gonna go down to the lobby and see if maybe they went outside. Ball’s a smoker, so…” she reasoned, trailing off as she walked away, headed for the elevator. 

Once Teresa exited the elevator on the main level of the building, she began scanning the lobby, looking for any sign of T and Ball, then approached the exit, planning to check out the smoking area, just outside the building, when a text came in on her phone. It read, simply, “Stay inside.”

Now she was completely freaked out. Something was wrong. She’d had that feeling since before she and T had even arrived at their hotel that morning, but now she felt nauseous, to the point that she gagged, managing not to throw up, probably since she and T had never ended up getting anything to eat. 

Not knowing what else to do, she rushed to the security desk, inquiring with the guard as to whether he had seen T and Ball. She showed him a picture of T, after which he nodded, adding, “Yep. Saw him walking out of here a little while ago,” he smiled, feeling useful, for a change. “He was with a really huge guy with a shaved head,” he added. 

“Wh...Wha...You mean taller than him?” she asked, pointing again to T’s picture on her phone. “Oh, yes. Much taller,” he answered. Teresa swallowed hard. She didn’t know what the fuck to think. Ball wasn’t a particularly large man. Definitely shorter than T, in fact. And though he was balding, she’d never known him to shave his head either.

“Do you have a surveillance camera here?” she squeaked, breaking out in a cold sweat, her head spinning, her stomach in knots. 

“Yes,” he answered, giving her a questioning look. 

“Look,” she growled through gritted teeth, getting uncomfortably close to the man’s face, “I need to review the footage. Do I have to call the cops for that, or what?”

“No, ma’am,” he stammered, struggling to speak as he was overcome with embarrassment, “but I’ll...I’ll have to call my boss...I don’t know how to play it back.”

Teresa paced impatiently as the guard made the necessary call, then began the process of pulling the footage Teresa had requested. As he fast-forwarded through the preceding hour, he paused the recording, once he recognized T and the man who had accompanied him, turning to get a read on Teresa’s reaction. He watched as the color drained from Teresa’s face, her phone slipping from her hand and falling to the floor with a dull thud.

“Oh my God!” she shrieked in terror, “Call the police!!”

__________________________________

Mickey’s conversation with Dr. Lange ended, mid-stream, when there came a loud knock at the door, followed immediately by Agent Charles’ hasty entry. “Why is he still in bed?!” he barked impatiently, whipping his head around in Dr. Lange’s direction with disdain.

“Relax! It ain’t her fault!” Mickey shot back at him defensively, “What the fuck’s so important I gotta go on a Saturday anyway?!” 

“Get dressed. I’ll fill you in when we get there,” Charles responded, backing down a bit from his initial, aggressive stance.

Ian bagan to stir as Mickey worked to extricate himself from his embrace. “Come on. Get up! We gotta go,” Mickey said softly, running his fingers lightly over Ian’s pale, freckled forearm as he moved it aside. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Milkovich, but Mr. Gallagher won’t be going with us,” Charles apologized unsympathetically, shifting his weight from one foot to the other with increasing annoyance. 

“The hell he won’t!” Mickey yelled, “We’re gettin’ married! I’m not gonna have ya settin’ me up somewhere so I’ll never fuckin’ see him again!” Mickey jumped up from the bed, crossing his arms over his chest in protest. 

By this time, Ian was sitting up in the bed, a dumbfounded look on his sleepy face. Dr. Lange turned away, hiding the growing smirk on her face. She had seen a bit of this side of Mickey before, and though it sometimes made her work with him a bit tougher, she secretly admired his feistiness, especially since it often came out in association with his love for Ian. She found it all to be quite endearing. 

“I’m afraid that just wouldn’t be a safe situation,” Charles added firmly, in a fruitless attempt to dissuade Mickey’s stubbornness. 

“Oh yeah?! So...you sayin’ I’m in danger here, huh?” Mickey growled. 

“Well, you could be…” Charles responded, pausing, uncertain as to how much more he should share.

“Then how’re you gonna say that he ain’t?!” Mickey demanded angrily, his face reddening more by the second, “...s’go, Ian, I’ll help ya get dressed.”

Agent Charles stared at Mickey incredulously, as Mickey wheeled the shower chair over to the bed, assisting Ian in getting out of the bed and onto it. 

“We’ll be out after our shower,” Mickey called backward, as he pushed Ian toward the bathroom.

“You...you can’t…” Charles stuttered nervously.

“Look,” Mickey began in a low, defiant voice, spinning around to glare at Charles contemptuously, “I’m a free fuckin’ man now...And I’m lettin’ ya know...I ain’t goin’ fuckin’ nowhere without him,” he continued, squeezing Ian’s shoulders affectionately, “So ya can either take us both, or ya can forget me testifyin’ in any of your bullshit. You hear me?!”

Agent Charles nodded hesitantly, pulling his phone from his pocket, then shaking his head as Mickey and Ian disappeared into the bathroom.


	36. Batter Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence warning! Nothing sexual, but violent, nonetheless. Enjoy!

“His name is Burman...James Burman!” Teresa shared hysterically, the police officer taking notes as she spoke, the security guard handing him a printed picture of Burman and T from the surveillance footage.

“And how is it that Mr. McKenna knows this gentleman?” the officer asked.

“He’s no gentleman! He’s a defendant in a prison sex abuse case. T worked with him, and was the one who exposed all the horrific things he was doing to inmates,” Teresa explained, not giving a shit who she told at this point. In her mind, this was a matter of life and death for T, and she had nowhere else to turn.

She was about to elaborate, providing details regarding Burman’s obvious use of Ball’s credentials, in order to gain entry to the nursing facility, when two official-looking men arrived, dismissing the police officer. “We’ll take it from here,” the taller of the two informed him, flashing his badge, after which the second agent pulled Teresa toward the rear lobby exit, speaking in a hushed tone as he led her to a parked and running car with dark window tints, “Get in quickly.” 

Once she was in the backseat, he handed her phone to her, directing her to disable her passcode, in order to allow them unlimited access. Teresa stared at the phone pensively. She had so many questions, but was still concerned with whether these agents were on the up-and-up. Did these people also have T? Were they really federal agents, or could they be imposters in cahoots with Burman? But she was too afraid to ask, her mind reeling, her entire body shaking violently after the bizarre chain of events she’d experienced over the past 30 minutes or less. 

“Ms. Lewis,” the smaller agent, now in the passenger seat began, “We are here to keep you safe, and to find Mr. McKenna, but we need your cooperation. Now please...open your phone.” Teresa tentatively entered her passcode, then disarmed it, cooperating fully with the request.

“Now hand me the phone,” the same agent commanded authoritatively. Teresa complied, after which he made what sounded like a FaceTime call from his own phone.

“Well?” a gruff, male voice came over his phone.

“Yes, it’s done,” he muttered in response.

“Put her on,” she heard the same voice respond, after which the agent handed his phone to Teresa.

“Ms. Lewis,” a thirty-something bald man in a suit addressed her over the phone.

“Yes,” Teresa replied nervously, her stomach churning violently, threatening to heave at any moment.

“I need your help with a few pieces of information,” the man continued, “regarding the Burman case.”

“Okay,” Teresa answered in a whisper, her throat so dry with fear, her voice wouldn’t work.

“Do you know if Mr. McKenna retained a copy of the audio evidence from the prison?” he asked in a serious, all-business tone.

Teresa shook her head, afraid to open her mouth, for fear of vomiting.

“‘No’, he didn’t? Or ‘No’, you don’t know?” he asked, for clarification.

“I don’t know,” she managed to choke out, wondering why this question was being asked. Certainly the feds, Ball and Stateville all had copies of it by now. “Why?” she added, beginning to question these men’s legitimacy.

“We think this may be the reason Burman came to D.C. looking for him,” the agent in the car explained, Teresa sighing in relief at what she felt was a valid reason for the question.

“And do you have his address, back in Illinois? We’d like to send an agent there to retrieve the copy, if it exists,” came the next question.

Truly Teresa didn’t have his address. The unfortunate circumstances that had prevailed since their first amorous encounter at work had precluded them from ever visiting one another’s homes. “I don’t, but I’m sure if you contacted the Warden’s Office at Stateville, you could…” Teresa stopped speaking, mid-sentence, questioning, in her mind, why these federal agents wouldn’t just contact the prison for this information, in the first place.

The answer to her unasked question came before she had the opportunity to ask it. “We tried to contact the Warden, but haven’t had any luck. None of the weekend staff at the prison was able to help us.”

Now Teresa was extremely worried about Petrov and T. If Petrov didn’t answer calls from federal agents, something must be dreadfully wrong. Maybe the body was...No! She couldn’t bear to even think such a thing right now. She refocused herself, preparing to answer anything that might be helpful in finding T and bringing him back to her safely.

“Do you know the whereabouts of Mr. McKenna’s phone?” came the next in the barrage of inquiries.

Shit! She remembered that she’d seen it sitting on the side table, next to his bed. Now she wished she would have grabbed it. At least Burman didn’t have it, she thought, then shared, “I saw it in his room at the nursing facility.” 

Now her mind conjured up a scenario---T being manhandled, Burman forcibly removing him from his room, before he could even grab his phone. Who knows what unspeakable things he could be doing to T? Teresa’s eyes began to well up with tears, her thoughts turning to the horrific injuries suffered by T and countless inmates at the hands of this monster.

“How did Burman even get here?” she asked, choking back a sob, “I thought he was in federal prison, awaiting trial.”

“He made bond yesterday morning,” the man on the other end of the phone said in a softer voice, adding, “I have one more question. And this is important to the safety of some other people you know and care for, so, again, I stress the importance of your complete cooperation.”

“Alright,” Teresa breathed, tears now streaming relentlessly down her face.

“We need to know the whereabouts of Mickey Milkovich and Ian Gallagher,” he stated with a put-on officiality that, coupled with her growing suspicions about these men, made her gag, her stomach contracting painfully and shooting bitter bile from her empty stomach up into her mouth. 

Teresa knew the feds were aware that both Mickey and Ian were at Johns Hopkins. The U.S. Attorney’s Office had been the ones to arrange for their transport and care, as well as T’s, which begged the question---Who the fuck were these guys who had lured her into this car, under the guise of being federal agents? They must be Burman’s cohorts, AB members! It would certainly explain all of the shaved heads. Yes, these people must be in town to eliminate witnesses! Now it all made sense.

After this discovery, she was certainly not willing to answer this or any further questions, which she knew was going to cause an immediate, most likely life-threatening problem for her. Nothing, however, could prepare her for what was about to unfold. She sat silently, averting her eyes, which were now spilling a steady stream of tears down her face and onto the front of her once flawlessly beautiful dress, one she had saved for her morning meeting with T, which she now recounted wistfully in her head, desperately trying remove herself mentally from what she was sure would be one of the worst moments of her life, perhaps even the end of it.

“Surely you sent their medical records. You must know where they are. Time is of the essence. Their safety could be compromised already. We need to get to them ASAP,” the man on FaceTime pleaded, appealing to her on an emotional level. 

Teresa wrung her hands, absolutely terrified and at a complete loss as to what she could do or say to get herself out of this. “I...I can’t remember. The U.S. Attorney’s Office could help you,” she sobbed, overcome with foreboding and dread. 

“Come on, Ms. Lewis. You know it’s Saturday. We are part of an undercover unit and don’t have access to anyone at the moment. And time is of the essence,” he snarled, seeming to be working very hard not to snap on her.

“I can’t tell you what I don’t remember,” she murmured, wiping anxiously at her tear-soaked face. 

“Well, maybe I could show you something that might jog your memory,” the man suggested with an evil hiss, reversing the camera on his phone to focus on T, bound-up, gagged and badly beaten.

Teresa watched in agony as Burman approached T, winding up with a baseball bat and cracking him across both knees. Teresa could hear T’s muffled cries of pain, and after he quieted down, she could see that he was looking at her with the one eye that wasn’t completed swollen shut. 

“Please!!” Teresa begged hysterically, “Don’t hurt him anymore!” 

“Are you going to tell us where they are?” Burman growled, taking a drag off his cigarette, then approaching the camera with a sick, twisted grin on his face as he blew smoke at it, “Cuz, if not, I could do this all day! In fact,” he continued as he approached T’s bloody, disfigured form, “I got plenty of tricks in my bag.” Burman crushed the glowing ember of his cigarette out on T’s cheek, T reacting with little more than a slight whimper, then weakly shaking his head from side to side, communicating to Teresa that she shouldn’t give them anything.

Teresa began wretching involuntarily, releasing what tiny bit of stomach contents that remained onto the floor of the car. “Pull over,” the man with the phone demanded of the driver, who instantly complied, pulling into an abandoned lot. Both men stepped out of the car, the passenger dragging Teresa out by her hair and throwing her to the ground. 

“Disgusting bitch!” he howled, focusing the camera on her as he kicked, stomped and spat on her, all for T to witness from his helpless position. “Now clean it up!!” he hollered, adding, “WIth your tongue!” as he yanked her by the hair into the backseat of the car.

“You got anything YOU wanna share now?” Burman bellowed into T’s face, pulling the gag from his mouth to expose his bloody lips, two teeth falling from the gag to the floor. 

“You let her go...and I’ll tell you anything you wanna know,” T grunted through what was scarcely recognizable as his face, after all he’d endured. 

“Nevermind! Nevermind!” the driver of the car, who had been fucking with Teresa’s phone, ever since they had gotten out of the car, screamed with excitement.

“What do you mean?” the second man asked optimistically, releasing the death-grip he’d had on Teresa’s hair.

“Check this out!” the driver said with a smile, flashing Teresa’s phone screen, where he had opened her Uber app and accessed her trip history, which clearly showed her trip from Johns Hopkins to visit T the night before. 

The other man let out a sinnister giggle, then turned the phone to face him. “We’re gonna let her go...so start talking!” he bellowed, before ending the call.

“Clean her up!” the driver instructed, “We’re gonna send her in to get his phone. And she’ll, of course, be instrumental in getting us what we need at Johns Hopkins...And Ms. Lewis,” he continued, redirecting his attention at her, “Remember...your cooperation is expected, unless you want to watch Burman crush McKenna’s head like a watermelon with that bat of his---which can surely be arranged. 

___________________________________

“No...I know. I...I told Milkovich that...They’re...they’re getting a shower,” Agent Charles offered sheepishly to his supervisor.

As he stood listening to his boss’ lengthy reply, Dr. Lange received a return call from her lawyer friend, Gayle. She stepped away so their conversations wouldn’t impede one another.

When Dr. Lange returned to Mickey and Ian’s room, Agent Charles was embroiled in what sounded like a disagreement with his supervisor. “But I can’t...That would...You may need to send someone else…”

As Dr. Lange listened to Charles’ end of the conversation, she felt she needed to interrupt. “Your whole conversation here may be moot. Mickey and Ian have retained Gayle Jatone as their counsel, so she must be consulted before any further decisions are made on their behalf,” Dr. Lange said with a smile, Mickey and Ian having exited the bathroom just in time to hear her. 

“And she is also arranging for their procurement of a marriage license, after which they will be viewed as ‘family’ under the law,” Dr. Lange continued, her lines being fed to her over the phone. 

“I fuckin’ told ya,” Mickey piped up indignantly, “I ain’t goin’ fuckin’ nowhere without him!”


	37. Who's Who?

Teresa gasped for air, feeling as though she might pass out, as the dark sedan pulled up in front of the main entrance of the nursing facility they’d left only minutes before. “We’re gonna go in, get the phone, and come right out! No funny business, or your loverboy gets it! We really don’t need him anymore, so his fate is in your hands,” the shorter thug threatened as he unlocked the car doors, preparing to exit with her. 

Just as they were about to step out of the car, he grabbed her roughly by the hair again. “Do you understand?” he growled, tightening his grip and pulling her head in his direction to force eye contact. Teresa nodded slowly, after which he loosened his hold on her and shoved her callously toward the door. 

Teresa stepped out gingerly, her legs shaky, her gait wobbly, at best. She straightened her dress as she entered the facility lobby, her ‘shadow’ following closely behind, her head dizzy with fear and uncertainty. As they waiting at a makeshift security check in the lobby, which was under heightened surveillance, following the recent incident, the pseudo-agent’s phone buzzed, his response being to step away from Teresa and answer immediately. The call was over quickly, ending with him sending a quick text, after which he handed Teresa her own phone as they approached the front of the line. 

“Anything happens, you answer the FaceTime,” he instructed. As they approached the front of the line, both provided ID, which was immediately put through ‘Raptor’, an authentication and criminal record check software. Not surprisingly, her captor’s information was not checking out, despite his fancy badge, so he was pulled aside, under protest, awaiting questioning by the police. 

He made brief, threatening eye contact with Teresa, as a reminder that she had better not cross him, if she valued T’s life. She nodded her unspoken understanding and proceeded to carry out his orders, heading into the elevator on her own. She watched nervously as the elevator doors closed, leaving her alone, if only briefly. 

Without a second thought, she retrieved Dr. Lange’s number from her Contacts and sent a text, which read, “DANGER!! AB! Get them out ASAP! No calls or texts please! They will be sending me in!” She didn’t dare request any specific help for herself at her present location, for fear that T would be killed. She hoped that, if she kept up the appearance of cooperation, they might both be spared, though she couldn’t fathom how it would be possible. 

When the elevator doors opened on T’s floor, Teresa headed straight for his room, only to find that his phone was missing. Before she could even leave the room, she got a FaceTime call from what she correctly assumed to be the man who had driven them to the facility. She answered tentatively, explaining that the phone was not in the room, and that she planned to ask for it at the nurse’s station. He nodded silently in response, shooting her a menacing glare, just to be sure she understood that T’s life depended upon her successful completion of this task, then ending the call, but not before Teresa snapped a quick screenshot. She then took a minute to send it to Dr. Lange, quickly deleting both messages immediately afterward, then proceeding to the nurse’s station, where she was informed that a federal agent had already come for the phone.

She turned away, heading for the elevator, when she received the identical text she had gotten from the same number earlier that morning, "Stay inside!" Her heart began to pound, even harder than it already had been, her dizziness increasing as she broke out into a cold sweat. She knew that every minute she spent inside that facility was more time for the AB to do God. Knows. What. to poor T, but if there really was someone out there trying to help her, she didn’t want to disobey them either. As her overwhelmed, nourishment-deprived, dehydrated mind pondered her and T’s bleak future and the few options she had, her vision blurred, her head spun, then all went dark. She could feel herself falling, but was powerless to stop it.

“Ms. Lewis! Ms. Lewis!” a female voice called to her as she felt gentle hands lightly touching her neck, then feeling for a pulse. “I’m alive,” she thought, though she was too weak to get a word out.  
__________________________

“Your ‘backup’ is here,” Dr. Lange hissed sarcastically at Agent Charles, having explained to Gayle, in private, that the immediate goal of keeping Mickey and Ian together had been accomplished. Thanks to Gayle’s expertise, Dr. Lange was able to keep the source of the information she had received from Teresa vague, yet credible, and, with the added legal pressure that Gayle had so adeptly applied through her connections at the Bureau, Ian and Mickey were dressed and ready to go within minutes.

Dr. Lange fully intended to request Gayle’s guidance regarding Teresa’s situation, once Ian and Mickey were safely aboard the helicopter that had just landed on the rooftop, awaiting her two endangered patients. She wanted Gayle’s advice as to whether the feds, who were involved with what amounted to the pending rescue of Mickey and Ian, should be privy to any details, of which she had precious few, at this point. 

Dr. Lange’s intuition told her that involving them in Teresa’s largely unknown situation now would divert at least some of their attention away from Ian and Mickey’s immediate circumstance. Not only that, but Teresa had specifically requested that no one contact her, something Lange doubted a relative stooge like Agent Charles would adhere to. She worried that fed involvement might just end up getting her injured or killed. 

Dr. Lange called the nurse’s station, instructing the Unit Clerk to summon a transport assistant to help Charles with Mickey and Ian, fully expecting that at last one Air Marshall would likely arrive before the assistant, but covering all of the bases, nonetheless. 

“Hey! Can we get this show on the road?” Mickey quipped in annoyance, his comment directed at an obviously preoccupied Agent Charles, who hadn’t looked up from his phone once, since hearing the news from Dr. Lange. He appeared to be receiving a barrage of texts, the contents of which he was not sharing with anyone.

Finally, after a pregnant pause, Charles acknowledged Mickey, reaching for the wheelchair that had been left by the door for Ian and wheeling it over to the bed, where Ian was sitting up anxiously. “Can I get some help? A nurse or something?” he asked. Dr. Lange and Mickey responded by simultaneously taking the wheelchair from him and maneuvering Ian carefully into it. 

“He’ll have to be cuffed to the chair,” Charles informed, pulling a set of handcuffs from his belt. 

“Like hell!” Mickey bellowed defiantly, ripping the cuffs from Charles’ hand. 

“Milkovich!” Charles yelled, reaching into his belt again, this time retrieving his service pistol, “Don’t make me do this!” he finished, his hand gripping the handle of his pistol, poised to pull it from its holster. 

“Mickey! Stop!” Ian screamed, terrified that Mickey might do something crazy and get himself shot. Ian had certainly seen that happen more than once, but never by someone with the kind of training and expertise that this guy surely had. 

Mickey dropped the cuffs and held his hands up, his palms facing Charles. “Please!” he pleaded, “Let him leave here with some fuckin’ dignity. You got no idea all he’s been through.”

Charles removed his hand from the pistol, then bent down to retrieve the handcuffs from the floor. “I’m sorry, but he has to be cuffed. I’ll lose my job if he isn’t,” Charles explained, his voice seeming to reflect at least some regret over this requirement. 

“It’s okay, Mick,” Ian interjected, “The important thing is that we’re gonna be together.”

Mickey smiled down at Ian, though his eyes were sad, as he watched Ian allow Charles to fasten his right wrist to one of the vertical bars on the wheelchair. “Okay, let’s go,” Charles announced, pushing Ian’s wheelchair, Mickey walking along side it, holding onto his free hand. 

“Here! Put these on,” Charles added, almost as an afterthought, pulling two pair of sunglasses from inside his jacket.

Ian snickered as Charles placed a pair in his free hand, still folded and packaged in plastic. “Here!” Mickey barked, pulling them from Ian’s grip, ripping them from the plastic and fitting them to his face, all the while glaring at Charles contemptuously. To Mickey, the whole problem with this guy was a lack of respect for Ian because he was an inmate. To Ian, the guy was just doing his job with an overall lack of polish, nothing to get bent out of shape over, though he knew his fiance well enough to know better. Mickey was definitely pissed, and he wasn’t one to be quickly talked down.

The elevator trip to the rooftop of the hospital was uneventful, the trio easily making their way without any unwanted contact with anyone who might have recognized Ian or Mickey. “Gonna have to dye that hair again,” Charles commented casually, more for the sake of interrupting the uncomfortable silence than anything else. 

“The fuck he is!” Mickey huffed angrily. He loved his pale-skinned, ginger-haired future husband au naturale, and resented the implication that he would have to be anything other than that, in order to please the feds, or anyone else, for that matter.

“It’s for his own protection,” Charles responded as they proceeded out onto the roof toward the helicopter, “and yours, too, really…” he paused, his phone buzzing once again. 

As Charles looked down at his phone, reading his most recent text, a man stepped out of the helicopter, presumably to help with loading Ian and his wheelchair. As Charles lifted his gaze, catching sight of the man, he drew his gun, the other man following suit. “Drop your weapon and put your hands up!” Charles shouted with conviction, aiming his own gun at the man. 

“No! You drop yours!” was the response, the two effectively reaching a stalemate. Mickey stood in front of Ian in an attempt to shield him from what he was sure was going to be a gun fight of some sort. 

The sound of a gunshot, originating from inside the helicopter, startled Mickey into action, its echo bouncing faintly off the surrounding buildings. Mickey dove on top of Ian instinctively, laying his entire body out over him, then turning to see that Charles had been hit and lay mortally wounded, less than two feet from Ian’s wheelchair.

The man who had initiated the drawing of guns approached Ian and Mickey, running at a pretty good clip, gun still in hand, but not aimed at anyone in particular. Mickey leapt to his feet, scrambling for Charles’ pistol and aiming it in the direction of the running man, then reached into the dying man’s pants pocket to retrieve the keys for the handcuffs that held Ian captive to his wheelchair, immediately liberating him as the armed stranger approached. 

“Mickey! Don’t!” was Ian’s strained plea, as Mickey stood fast, the pistol cocked and locked, now aimed directly at the man before him.

“Drop the gun, Milkovich! And get your asses into the helicopter! My pilot’s got a scope on your man, and if you shoot me, neither of you is getting outta here alive!” the man hollered, his voice barely audible over the droning engine and swirling blades of the helicopter. 

“Mickey! Please! Just listen to him!!” Ian begged, tears streaming down his terrified face. “PLEASE!!!” he repeated, wiggling his way out of the wheelchair and falling at Mickey’s feet. 

“Alright, Ian! Jesus Christ!’ Mickey answered with a defeated sigh, hoisting Ian up over his shoulder and carefully carrying him toward the helicopter. “Now what, Ian?” he asked mournfully, “What the fuck now?”


	38. Shots Fired

“Please...Don’t call anyone!” Teresa begged, as she began to gather her wits after what she was sure had been nothing more than a fainting episode, brought on by a combination of dehydration, low blood sugar and stress. 

“But Ms. Lewis…” Alina began, Teresa holding her hand up to interrupt.

“If you’ll just get me some water...I’ll be fine...I have a ride waiting,” Teresa spoke reassuringly in an earnest attempt to allay Alina’s fears sufficiently and allow her to walk away on her own. It seemed to work. Alina helped her to a chair, then went to fetch her a bottle of water. Teresa thought briefly of making a run for it, but decided against it, fearing she might end up on the floor again if she didn’t wait for the water.

Teresa sat nervously drinking her water, reflecting on the last mysterious message she had received from that same anonymous number. She had no idea how to proceed. She knew the Aryan driver of the car she’d been in was waiting impatiently, but she had no idea what had become of the shorter one, who had accompanied her and been stopped by the police. At the same time, the message to “Stay Inside” seemed like it must be from someone who was looking out for her. But who?

She thanked Alina profusely, assuring her that she was fine, then made a quick break for the elevator, before Alina could do anything to stop her. As she stood inside the elevator, alone once again, she decided to take a chance and text Dr. Lange to check up on Ian and Mickey, but before she could even hit ‘send’, she received a message from that unknown number again, this time reading, “Proceed as planned.”

Teresa’s heart sank. She now realized that these messages must have come from one of the Aryans. How they’d managed to get her number prior to picking her up, she didn’t know, but this was the only explanation that made sense.

She hung her head as the elevator doors opened, quickly deleting the unsent message to Dr. Lange, so as to avoid being caught communicating with anyone. She couldn’t shake the feeling of utter despair that accompanied the heartwrenching image of T’s horrifically abused face and body from her tormented mind. She felt so powerless to do anything for him, and it hurt like hell, like nothing she’d experienced since Max’s torture and ultimate death.

She wiped hurriedly at her tear-filled eyes as she exited the front of the building, heading for the dark sedan, which was parked in the same spot as when she’d left it. The dark tinted passenger side window opened a crack, the words, “Get in the back...Fast!” escaping just before the window slid closed again. 

“Get down and stay quiet!” the driver barked, before speeding away recklessly. Teresa crouched on the floor behind the passenger seat, her entire body quaking violently, afraid to utter a single word.

After about ten minutes of cowering in the same uncomfortable position fearfully, watching the changing landscape whiz by from her cramped vantage point, she heard a thudding sound coming from behind her. At first she thought that maybe they had hit a bump in the road that had loosened something under the car. Then she heard it again, along with what sounded like a long string of muffled curse words. 

As the violent assault on the inside of the trunk continued, Teresa finally got up the courage to lift her head and get a peek into the passenger seat. She noticed immediately that it was empty. Afraid to be discovered disobeying the driver’s instructions, she ducked back down, wondering what had happened to the shorter man who had been detained in the lobby of the nursing facility, but afraid to ask. She remained quiet and completely hidden from view for the remainder of the trip, as she had been told, despite the continuous bellowing and banging that emanated from the trunk of the car.

“Get up! We’re getting out,” came a stern set of instructions, as she felt the car slowing down, turning, then stopping. That voice though! It was different than the driver from before. She knew it! Yes, she was sure!

“Petrov!” she mouthed silently, with a relief that rushed through her body, her tense muscles relaxing instantly, from head to toe. She was safe now; she could feel it. And Petrov was alive! Hopefully, he would be able to help T, too, she dared to hope. 

Petrov guided her from the backseat and put his arm around her shoulders, leading her toward an old, dilapidated warehouse. 

“You’re okay. We are going someplace safe,” he assured her as he walked her inside, the large open space filled with vintage foreign cars, large-scale weaponry and guns. He helped her over to a ripped up, orange, vinyl couch, where he sat down next to her, silently taking her into his arms for the moment, while she let herself go, sobbing uncontrollably. 

“Did they hurt you? Let me look at you,” he breathed, holding her at arm’s length, gently wiping her tears away and scanning her face for any sign of injury.

Teresa was absolutely stunned---speechless. She couldn’t fathom the idea that Petrov was not only alive, but had come all this way to help her, and that she somehow had the good fortune to escape what she was fairly certain would have been a death sentence.

“I’m...I’m fine…” Teresa stammered awkwardly, the intensity in Petrov’s eyes clearly communicating his genuine concern and caring. 

“I’m sorry for all you’ve been through,” he offered, pulling her into him for another hug and rubbing a sympathetic hand down her back, ignoring the surge of electricity that ran through him as he did. 

“But they have T! And Burman hit him with a bat...and…” she choked out, before becoming hysterical as she fought to finish her sentence.

“Sonny’s guys had a tail on Burman and the Aryans he’s with. He lost them in a residential area in Alexandria, but they’re working on it,” Petrov assured her. 

“Sonny?” she asked, wondering who this man was that Petrov spoke about with such familiarity, but of whom she had no knowledge.

“Yeah...Sonny Milkovich...Old friend from my Southside days…” Petrov explained briefly, choosing not to divulge too much about his Russian mob affiliations, although Teresa had an idea that Petrov was connected, ever since she had learned of Petrov and Ivan’s role in the mysterious deaths of the Aryans who had been involved in T’s stabbing.

“Milkovich...so related to Mickey?” she asked, the curiosity killing her at this point. 

“Yes. His cousin,” Petrov answered with a nod, clarifying, in Teresa’s mind, the reason for the sudden change in Mickey’s status at Stateville, from a standard snitch to a well-protected witness, even prior to the involvement of the feds at the prison.

“Okay…” Teresa began, having managed to calm herself a bit, after hearing that someone was at least trying to locate T, “So...when are you gonna tell me who’s in the trunk, and what you plan to do with him?” 

“Them,” he corrected her matter-of-factly, “The two assholes that kidnapped you!” 

“So...what ARE ya gonna do with them?” she pressed him.

“That’s not my department...but it will be handled,” he finished with a look of confident assurance.

“Aren’t you worried they’ll get out, or that someone will hear them?” she asked anxiously.

“Nope,” he answered with a smile, as he read an incoming text.

Teresa gathered, from the pleased look on Petrov’s face, that he’d just received some good news, and dared to ask, “Did they find him?”

Petrov let out a heavy, regretful sigh, hating like hell to let her down. He spoke softly, wrapping his arm around her, once again, “Teresa, I’m sorry. I haven’t heard anything on him, but…” 

Before Petrov could finish his sentence, the increasingly loud whirr of a helicopter began to drown him out. Clearly, it was landing in close proximity to the warehouse. 

“Oh my God!” Teresa screamed, totally panicked, “What are we gonna do?”

“Relax, Teresa,” Petrov assured her, raising his voice to be heard over the now deafening din of the helicopter blades, “It’s not what you think.”

“What is it then?!” she demanded nervously, standing up in disapproval of his vague answer.

“Come on,” Petrov muttered, approaching and leading her to the door of the warehouse, the sound slowing and becoming gradually lower in pitch and volume, before finally stopping completely. Teresa followed Petrov reluctantly, hoping he knew what he was doing.

“Now...open the door,” he commanded, as he heard hushed voices approaching it from the outside. 

Teresa obeyed apprehensively, watching in complete disbelief as Mickey pushed Ian through the doorway in a wheelchair, two handsome, dark-haired gentlemen about Petrov’s age following closely behind them.

“Teresa!” Ian squealed, reaching up in her direction with a bright smile on his face. Teresa rushed over, falling into Ian’s warm embrace, then acknowledging Mickey with an affectionate rub of his shoulder, after which she turned and approached Petrov, hugging him hard.

“Thank you,” she mumbled tearfully into his chest.

“Teresa,” Mickey called to her, Teresa turning to meet his sparkling blue eyes with her own, “This is my cousin, Sonny, and his partner, Yuri.”

Teresa extended her hand, first to Sonny, then to Yuri, thanking them for saving Ian and Mickey’s lives. Both nodded graciously, then turned to focus on Petrov. 

“We gonna do this?” Sonny asked with an impatient, Milkovich-style growl that made Ian grin slightly. 

“Yeah, let’s go,” Petrov responded, heading for the door, Mickey and the other two following after him.

“Mickey! Don’t!” Ian pleaded in desperation, his jovial manner quickly replaced by fear of losing his man again.

“Yeah, it’s cool. Just stay with him. You’ve been through enough,” Petrov chimed in, throwing Ian his unexpected support.

Mickey rolled his eyes and turned back in Ian’s direction. Sonny smirked at Mickey, conveying, without words, his amusement with the significant influence Ian most definitely had on him. This was the second time he’d seen it, in the short time they’d been together, the first being on the roof of Johns Hopkins, when Mickey had dropped his weapon, at Ian’s urging.

“Come on. Let’s get ya comfortable,” Mickey muttered as he shifted Ian from his chair to the couch. Teresa assisted, helping Mickey to prop Ian’s leg, then taking a seat next to Mickey, who had collapsed into the couch, so close to Ian that they looked like Siamese twins.

“Thank you,” Ian breathed, inhaling deeply, filling his sinuses with Mickey’s irresistible scent. He took Mickey’s hand in his, softly caressing Mickey’s tattooed knuckles with his thumb, an arousing warmth radiating from the contact point through the helpless bodies of both men.

“So...what’s the game plan?” Teresa asked, interrupting the silent longing that had suddenly captivated the couple. 

Teresa had received a concerned text from Dr. Lange, and was looking to relieve her worries without divulging too much. Petrov’s explanation, however, had left her with more questions than answers, so she wanted to get as much clarification from Ian and Mickey as possible. Ian shrugged his shoulders, deferring to Mickey, who looked like a deer in headlights, the throbbing pulse in his cock slowly subsiding and giving way to clearer thinking.

“They are safe,” Teresa texted back, for the time being, which brought on a lengthy response from Dr. Lange, detailing arrangements made through the feds for them to be married and protected, and expressing concern over the circumstances of their disappearance.

“Uh...Not sure yet...” Mickey finally began, Ian cutting him off, suddenly finding his voice. 

“Mick, regardless of what they say, I’m not willing to just stay out here, an escaped convict welching on my promise to testify in a case that could make life in prison safer for other inmates. It’s not the right thing to do,” Ian expressed emotionally.

“Ian! Ya do that...and we’ll be apart again...for a long time...or forever, if these Aryan fucks or the Cartel has their way,” Mickey huffed in frustration, tightly squeezing the hand that remained unconditionally interlocked with his own. 

“But Mickey, they’re gonna be looking for us anyway. And when they find us, we’re both going the fuck back to prison!” Ian argued back, his gorgeous green eyes burning into Mickey’s very soul.

“The fuck we will!” Mickey snorted defensively, “...and even if we do, ‘least we’ll be together.”

“Yeah...and we saw how well that worked out last time,” Ian snapped back sarcastically, maintaining a death grip on Mickey’s hand, as though merely discussing such things could make them so.

“Guys...please...if I can say something?” Teresa interjected politely.

“Please,” Ian replied, hoping she might be able to talk some sense into Mickey.

“From what Dr. Lange has told me, her lawyer friend, Gayle, has a lot of sway with the feds. She believes she can get you two married pretty quickly, and that you’ll be able to go into witness protection...together. This was always my plan for you, ever since I added your name, Ian, to Mickey’s records...as his fiance,” Teresa explained calmly, both men remaining respectfully silent until she finished.

“You did that...for us?” Ian asked incredulously, lightening his grasp on Mickey’s hand and beginning to rub his thumb tenderly over it, once again.

Teresa nodded in affirmation, adding, “That’s why Dr. Lange called me. That, in combination with your insistence, Mickey...and your tattoo.”

By this time, Ian and Mickey’s eyes were locked on each other’s, their once angry faces having softened, now showing nothing but love and desire for one another. 

“Thank you,” Ian whispered for the second time in less than ten minutes, leaning into Mickey’s face and planting tender kisses, first on his forehead, then his nose, and finally, on his invitingly full, pinker-than-pink lips. Teresa stood and walked away, offering them the privacy she knew they needed at that moment.

“And you’re both fuckin’ right. I don’t wanna live on the run again. But I wanna be with you, Ian,” Mickey acknowledged emotionally, his mesmerizing blue eyes getting Ian right where it counts, “more than anything in this fucked-up world.”

Ian pulled Mickey closer, absolutely overwhelmed by Mickey's sentiment and hopelessly in awe of his beauty. He took his time, nibbling at Mickey's deliciously thick, perfectly formed lips until he couldn't hold back any longer. Ian overtook Mickey's mouth like he owned it, thrusting his tongue forcefully between Mickey's parted lips, making love to his mouth with a red hot intensity that had them both panting ecstatically, their bodies screaming to be united, their unbridled passion pushing them to the brink. 

Just then, the door opened, Ian and Mickey immediately untangling themselves from one another as all three men entered. “Hey!” Mickey began, addressing Sonny as though he hadn't just had his tongue half-way down his finance's throat, “Been talkin...and we think we should turn ourselves in...ya know...let the feds protect me like they said.”

“Can’t do that right now,” Petrov cut in, Sonny acknowledging his statement with a nod.

“And why not?” Ian barked defensively, tugging Mickey’s hand up and pressing it into his chest protectively.

“Right now…” Petrov began with a deep sigh of exhaustion, “we need all the bargaining chips we can get. The Aryans have T. Best if the feds think they have all four of you.” 

Ian stared at Petrov, thoroughly confused and definitely not buying any of his shit.

“This way,” Petrov continued, “when we give them the intel we have, and say we rescued you guys...from these dicks,” he paused, scrolling through the pictures he had just taken of the trunk dwellers. “Then we’ll agree to return all of you, in exchange for finding T and ensuring his and Teresa’s safety.”

Mickey had to admit, it sounded like a decent plan. Even Ian looked as if he was willing to go along with it. Teresa, of course, loved the idea, feeling as though it was T’s best shot at survival. As the group settled in, ironing out the subtle nuances of their plan, there came a pounding at the warehouse door.

“Open the fucking door, ya dirty Russki pieces of shit!” a gruff voice growled menacingly through the door.

Mickey sprang up from the couch immediately, instinctively reaching into the back of his pants to retrieve the gun he had taken from Charles’ body. “Mickey!” Ian cried out, as Sonny and Yuri scrambled to arm themselves. 

In a matter of seconds, the door flew open. Mickey reacted reflexively, emptying the clip into the two masked intruders as they rushed in. The two large men dropped to the floor with successive, dull thuds. At that moment, Teresa noticed, much to her surprise, that they were not the two who had kidnapped her. 

Everyone in the room looked on in shocked disbelief, as Teresa approached the bodies in a futile attempt at rendering emergency aid, her first step being to remove their ski masks. 

“Holy shit!” she yelled, looking over at Petrov. “What should I do?”


	39. Protective Instinct

“Nothin’ you can do,” Ian answered, surveying the damage from his perch on the couch. Teresa felt for carotid pulses on both men, confirming the obvious---they were dead. Mickey was one hell of a shot, even under pressure. 

Ian found Mickey’s protective instincts and deadly accuracy to be extremely hot, despite the complicating and morose consequences his actions had thrust upon everyone in the room. He looked on in stunned amazement as Mickey and Yuri closed in on the bodies, immediately setting about emptying their pockets. Petrov helped Teresa to her feet, then began discussing plan revisions with Sonny.

“Hey!” Mickey interrupted, waving one of the phones in the air, “Look what I got!”

Sonny strode over to Mickey, immediately grabbing the phone from him. “This is fuckin’ perfect, Mick!” Sonny growled, praising Mickey for his quick thinking. 

Displayed on the phone was a set of GPS directions, turn by turn, that the two AB members, who now graced the warehouse floor with their blood, shit and piss, had used to find the warehouse. They had come from an address in Alexandria. 

“T’s at that address!” Teresa screamed. “We have to go there!” she begged emphatically, tugging at Petrov’s arm.

“Teresa, I promise you...we’ll get there. But we have to do this right. We can’t put anyone in danger, physical or otherwise,” he explained calmly, as she dissolved into tears, Petrov doing his best to comfort her. 

“You and Ian ain’t goin’ nowhere!” Mickey bellowed at Teresa as he removed a small pistol from an ankle strap on one of the dead Aryans, the last of four that he and Yuri had discovered, “Somebody’s gotta stay here and…”

Sonny cut Mickey off, “Yeah, and make sure our friends in the trunk don’t get outta hand. Since we just lucked into some more guns, Mickey should be able to handle it, right, Mick?”

Mickey nodded confidently, gripping the pistol in his right hand and shooting Ian a badass glare, which earned him a flirty smirk from Ian, who could scarcely mask his growing desire for his hardcore fiance.

“Okay...So here’s what’s gonna happen,” Sonny continued authoritatively, the others all listening intently, “We can’t drive that car out there to go for T. Obviously, they used it, or one of those two fuckwads’ phones in the trunk, to find us, but we don’t know which…” He paused, gathering his thoughts.

“So we gotta make sure we got all their phones...turn off the location services on all of ‘em...And we gotta get ridda these two,” he pointed callously at the dead Aryans on the floor, everyone in the room unanimously nodding in agreement. 

“So I’m thinkin’...stick ‘em in the helicopter. For all anyone knows, that G-Man we smoked on the roof offed ‘em both, but not before one of ‘em got a shot off, wastin’ ‘im. You followin’ me so far?” he asked, watching as the wheels turned in everyone’s heads.

“...think so…” Mickey replied, looking at Yuri, the two crouching down, positioning themselves to move the first of the two bodies.

“Wait with that!” Petrov shouted, “We have a few more things to iron out.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t finished…” Sonny responded with an eye roll in Yuri’s direction.

“Okay...so what do you plan to do with the helicopter, once they’re in it?” Petrov asked, clearly not yet in tune with Sonny’s vision. “That’s a federal helicopter. I got it on loan from a friend. I planned to have it back to D.C. by now...Can’t put him in this kind of position.”

“Can you fly it?” Sonny asked Petrov. 

“Yeah,” Petrov answered with a heavy sigh, dreading the prospect of showing up with two dead bodies in tow, but realizing that was precisely what Sonny intended for him to do. 

“Perfect!” Sonny exclaimed, clapping his hands for emphasis, “You’ll explain what happened on the roof, and that you had to get these two to safety.”

Petrov acknowledged his role reluctantly, swallowing hard as he worked through the scenario in his mind. 

Me and Yuri...we take one a these fancy bitches,” he pointed again, this time at the collection of vintage cars that surrounded them, “and use it ta get ta T.” 

The room fell silent, Petrov staring suspensefully at Sonny, who seemed to be done talking.  
Finally, his temper flaring, Petrov broke the silence, “What about the fuckheads in the trunk!? Still haven’t heard what we’re gonna do with them, now that the whole ballgame has changed!”

Petrov glanced over at Mickey, understanding why he’d shot and killed the two guys on the floor, but wishing he hadn’t, at the same time.

“We’re gonna hafta load them into the helicopter, too,” Mickey interjected, having thought things through and not seeing any other option. “We’ll just have to hit ‘em with somethin’...knock ‘em out, just ta be safe,” he reasoned. 

“Mick!” Ian piped up unexpectedly, “Help me up! I wanna look at the stuff on those shelves over there!”

Without hesitation, Mickey obliged him, walking him over to a set of metal shelves filled with auto care and repair items. “Hand me that yellow can on the bottom shelf,” Ian called out. 

Again, Mickey quickly honored his request, handling him a can of what he now saw was ether. Ian smiled the minute it hit his hand, “Use this, Mick. Soak a couple rags in it and put it over their faces. They’ll go to sleep...and stay that way ‘til you take the rag off,” he explained, turning his attention to Petrov.

“But only after we load the other two onto the helicopter,” Petrov clarified, and with that, Mickey and Yuri re-assumed their positions at either end of the Aryans, proceeding to lift them up and carry them out to the helicopter, Petrov leading the way. 

Once they were all outside, Teresa whispered to Ian, “I wanna go with them to get T.” 

“Teresa, you can’t. It’s gonna be a bad scene. Too dangerous,” Ian spoke dismissively.

“Ian!” she yelled, “You tell me you’d consider, for one minute, not going with them if it were Mickey that was being held captive and abused!” 

“Teresa, you were the voice of reason for me when I wanted to go with Mickey to Good Samaritan for his CT Scan. Now it’s my turn to do that for you,” Ian said with a warm smile, before reaching his arms out to her. 

Teresa took a seat next to Ian, allowing him to soothe her with a shoulder massage. He knew how helpless she felt, and how frustrating it was to be unable to help the person you love. He knew Teresa loved T, even if she didn’t know it yet. He’d seen something between them from the start, and it had only grown over the course of the nightmare they had all somehow managed to survive together---at least so far…

“Ian...What I gotta do here?” Mickey asked as he and Yuri walked back into the warehouse after moving the bodies. Ian looked up from his work on Teresa’s shoulders to see Mickey holding the can of ether in one hand and a rag in the other.

“First of all,” Ian began, “You should have Petrov do it. He’s the one who’s gonna be in the helicopter, so it’s alright if he stinks like ether. Also, I’d put the ski masks on those two...backwards...to cover their eyes. This way they won’t see anything that’s happening.”

Sonny grinned over at Mickey, clearly impressed by Ian’s combination of intelligence and common sense. He could definitely see why Mickey fell for Ian. He was quite the catch for anyone, but especially for a Milkovich. Mickey, reading his cousin’s face, gave a bashful half-smile in return. 

Once Ian caught sight of the irresistibly sexy look on Mickey’s face, it was game over. After all he’d seen and experienced today, he literally couldn’t wait to get his hands on Mickey. He just had to be sure that Mickey remained at the warehouse with him and Teresa. Truly, they did need someone to protect them, if anyone else came to do them harm, whether Ian wanted to admit it or not. Conveniently, his needs were to be best served if he played the ‘damsel in distress’ card, so that’s exactly what he did.

Mickey handed the ether and rags off to Petrov, who headed for the door, Sonny, Yuri and Mickey traipsing closely behind. “Mick!” Ian yelled, Mickey stopping dead in his tracks and turning to face him. 

“Better leave us a weapon...just in case,” Ian suggested with a strategic flutter of his vibrant lashes, as he looked up innocently through them at his, ironically, defenseless lover.

“Fuck no! I’ll be here…just in fuckin’ case. You can’t even fuckin’ walk! How the FUCK you gonna defend yourself?!” Mickey countered protectively, “Goin’ to put these assholes in the heli, dump that fuckin’ car somewhere, then I’ll be back!”

Mission accomplished! Ian smiled over at Teresa, who shook her head in mock disapproval, the betraying slight upturn at the corners of her mouth giving her away. Even in the midst of all the turmoil, she could clearly see Ian’s objective, as well as how smoothly he had pulled it off. She couldn’t blame him. If there was one thing she had learned through the horribly tragic circumstances she had witnessed, endured and survived, it was the transience of life. She had learned to live in the moment, to enjoy people and things while they were available, and she certainly wanted Ian to take his opportunity, even if it came at a time when she was absolutely distraught over T’s endangered status.

“Teresa, I’m sorry if I’m being…” Ian began, as soon as the others had left.

“No!” Teresa hollered, before he could finish his sentence, “Don’t you dare apologize! I see the way you’ve been lookin’ at him. And when he gets in here, you lure him in and fuck the daylights out of him! I’ll make myself scarce…keep watch…”

Ian couldn’t help but giggle. Teresa was so dead on. He did feel terribly about all that had happened to T, and all just for being a humanitarian, for giving a shit about people that no one else does. He knew she understood though. She’d seen, first hand, all he and Mickey had suffered through, and she definitely knew how they felt about each other.

Teresa sat, quietly awaiting Mickey’s return, Ian recounting all that had happened over the course of the day, feeling a rush of adrenaline as he recalled Mickey’s heroism in the face of grave danger for all concerned. Mickey was so fucking brave. Such a man. He wanted him---bad.

When Mickey finally walked back in, he was covered with blood and in a foul mood. “Gettin’ a fuckin’ shower,” he muttered with disgust, handing the pistol he’d had to Teresa, then grabbing the bag under the wheelchair and heading for an office area to the rear of the building, where someone must have told him there was a shower.

“Teresa, could you…could you please get me that chair?” Ian asked politely, as soon as Mickey had disappeared into the office and shut the door.

Teresa wheeled the chair over to Ian, helping him into it, a perplexed look on her face. “What?” he asked, noticing her expression.

“How are you gonna…nevermind,” she stammered, thinking better of her question before she got it all out.

“We’ll manage,” Ian growled, his rapidly stiffening dick already putting a stretch to his hospital scrubs.

“I’m sure you will,” Teresa laughed, watching him disappear into the office, wheelchair and all.


	40. Badass

“It’s me, Mick!” Ian called out loudly, upon entering the office/kitchen area that housed the bathroom where Mickey was showering. He would have liked nothing better than to have entered quietly, catching Mickey by surprise, perhaps even crashing in on him with the wheelchair, knocking him off his feet and into his lap. But alas, trying anything like that would surely have earned him a bullet or two, given the current circumstances. 

“You okay?” Mickey responded, bordering on panic.

“Relax...I’m fine. Just wishing I was in there with you,” Ian answered, recalling their last shower experience with a wistful smile.

Mickey pulled the shower curtain open, just enough to stick his head out. “Want me ta come out and get ya?” he asked, raising a sexy eyebrow.

“Yes...please!” Ian chuckled, his cock already beginning to stir as he envisioned his own body pressed to Mickey’s, rubbing against his warmth, their lips touching, the feel of Mickey’s muscular back and velvety skin under his fingertips. 

Ian wheeled himself as close as possible to the shower. He stripped his clothes off, then stood on one foot, stretching to lean against the wall, as Mickey ventured out of the shower. Mickey positioned himself to allow Ian to use him as a crutch of sorts, then pointed at Ian’s air-splint, 

“How ‘bout that?”

“Fuck it!” Ian announced, “Been wearing it for too long anyway.”

And with that, he loosened it, allowing it to fall away from his injured leg, just outside the shower. “Ian...don’t...You can’t...stand on that,” Mickey warned, adorably concerned furrows forming along his browline.

Before Ian could respond, Mickey lifted him by his waist, Ian encircling Mickey’s with his legs in one felled swoop. Mickey could feel Ian’s inner thighs squeezing his sides, his good leg locking tightly around him, his fingertips exploring his back tenderly, his mouth latching onto the side of his neck, his rapidly stiffening cock rubbing against his stomach.

“Your leg okay?” Mickey whispered, breathing hard as he adjusted his grip on Ian, doing his best to support Ian’s injured leg without hurting him, as he spun them around, pressing Ian’s back forcefully against the shower wall.

“Mmmm Hmmm,” Ian hummed against Mickey’s neck, slowly tonguing his way up to Mickey’s ear and sucking on his earlobe. 

“Ya know...you...were...really...hot...today,” he purred, nibbling softly at Mickey’s sensitive lobe between words.

“Yeah?” Mickey panted, the combination of his labored attempt to keep pressure off Ian’s leg and the crazily arousing words and deeds emanating from Ian’s sexy mouth, giving him quite the workout.

“Oh, fuck yeah!” Ian growled sensually, sliding his hands up Mickey’s back, digging his nails in, just enough to bring blood to the surface, then scratching downward, leaving behind red streaks and a glorious burn that lit Mickey’s loins afire.

Mickey licked his lips, calling Ian’s mouth, without words, to meet his. The kiss was wild, wet, sloppy, their tongues vying for dominance, both desperately thirsting for more, as Mickey pressed his body ardently against Ian’s, the tip of his throbbing cock nudging Ian’s asshole with an impatience of its own. 

Ian broke the kiss, palming the sides of Mickey’s face with his hands and tracing his lips with his right thumb, his lustful, green orbs silently imploring Mickey to quench his desire.

“You don’t want…” Mickey began.

“Oh, yeah…” Ian breathed huskily, “I definitely do want you to fuck me...like the badass you are. Haven’t stopped thinking about it...all day.” 

Mickey pinned Ian against the wall ferociously, kissing him hard, sliding his rigid shaft back and forth between Ian’s ass cheeks as he tried to finesse a way to prep him, while still providing his injured leg with the support it needed.

“Fuck this!” Mickey roared in frustration. He wrapped his arms around Ian, supporting his ass, and carried him out of the shower, depositing him on a nearby couch in the office, still soaking wet.

“Be right back,” he grunted, walking back over to the bathroom to grab two towels, the hospital bag and Ian’s splint. 

Ian half-sat on the couch, his body trembling, his hand instinctively grasping his own cock to provide some small measure of relief, as he anxiously awaited Mickey’s return.

“Sorry,” Mickey sighed, immediately beginning to towel-dry Ian’s hair, then attempting to gently dry his injured leg.

“Mick! Please...Just shut up and fuck me! I need you so fuckin’ bad right now,” Ian begged, his eyes dark and determined.

Mickey quickly encased Ian’s semi-dry leg in the splint, then pushed him over onto all fours, taking a moment to enjoy the view, as he spread Ian’s milky-white cheeks, exposing his tight little pink hole, then diving in, tongue first, feathering it in a circular motion. Once it was slick with saliva, Mickey thrust his tongue inside, swirling it masterfully, opening Ian up like the tasty snack that he was.

Ian groaned loudly, his own hand still fastened securely around his hard, sticky wand and pumping hard, as his body absorbed all of the simultaneous sensations it was being bombarded with.

“Oh fuck, Mick!” Ian screamed.

“Don’t even think about comin’, bitch!” Mickey snarled, pausing to ensure that he wouldn’t, pulling the lube from the bag and squirting an ample amount onto his fingers. 

Mickey pressed a heavily-lubed finger carefully into Ian, up to the first knuckle, Ian bearing down in an attempt to take more. Mickey snickered, abruptly adding a second finger in response.

“Fuck!” Ian hissed under his breath, the divine blend of pleasure and burn bringing acute awareness to every receptor in his body. 

Suddenly, he could feel the once cool water that still coated his hair, heating up, evaporating and being replaced with a sex-induced sweat that oozed from the still-open pores in his scalp, and the rest of his body. Mickey’s hot, urgent breath fanned over his buttocks, his own massive, completely engorged cock thumping from within, his pulse so strong, it reverberated powerfully throughout his body.

Mickey, completely in awe of the beautiful, alabaster miracle before him, was determined to fulfill his fantasy. Ian wanted to be fucked, hard and well, by a badass, HIS badass. And that was Mickey---nobody else. He stretched Ian a bit more, making the occasional tongue swipe, just to keep things interesting, Ian begging for it, all the while.

“Mick! Come on!” Ian whined one too many times.

“That’s it!” Mickey bellowed, slicking up his thick, rigid rail, then wiping the excess over his man’s hole. He gingerly eased himself inside Ian, bit by bit, careful not to overwhelm him too quickly, giving him the opportunity to get comfortable with his presence.

Mickey was so hot for him, he could scarcely hold himself back, his body fighting to drive into him, to fuck him the way he knew Ian wanted to be fucked, the way he wanted to fuck Ian. 

“Mick...Mick...Mick,” Ian sighed ecstatically, “You feel so...fucking...good!”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, bitch,” Mickey snorted, gripping Ian’s hips roughly and burying his full length deep into Ian’s ass.

“Yessss…” Ian hissed, gritting his teeth as Mickey rolled his hips rhythmically, hitting that exquisite angle with every stroke, fucking him so good, Ian couldn’t help but rut his sweet, quivering cheeks backward each time.

Mickey swallowed a moan, revelling silently in the heavenly feel of being inside Ian, the magical way Ian’s body reacted to his own. He was determined not to crack, to be the badass fuck Ian asked for.

“That how ya like it, bitch?!” Mickey growled into Ian’s ear, as he intensified his savage onslaught, slamming into Ian, harder and faster with each successive penetration. The sheer force of Mickey’s efforts coaxed the couch into motion, the friction of its plastic feet on the rough tile floor, eliciting a harsh, high pitched squeak that served to mark the brisk tempo Mickey had induced, the slap of Mickey’s hips and legs against Ian’s ass, along with Ian’s guttural moans and occasional yelps, joining in the carnal symphony that their session had become. 

As Ian’s excitement crescendoed, bringing him closer and closer to his monumental release, he clenched himself around Mickey, announcing his impending climax and cracking Mickey’s badass resolve. “Mick...you’re gonna...oh fuck! You’re gonna make me cum!” Ian squealed, raw desperation dripping from each quavering word.

“Ian...Fuck!!” the words escaped before he could stop them, the delightful pressure surrounding his near-exploding manhood edging him toward his own inevitable climax.

Mickey regripped Ian’s hips with a renewed ferocity, pounding into him, jostling his nugget relentlessly and bottoming out consistently, despite the deathgrip Ian’s ass was exerting on his pulsating member.

“Oh my f...Mick!!” Ian screeched. Mickey pulled Ian’s hand off his cock, replacing it with his own and stroking Ian fiercely, matching the frenetic pace of their bodies.

“I wanna feel it all!” Mickey breathed with a hoarseness that made the hair on the back of Ian’s neck stand up, covering him with goosebumps. 

“Fuckkkkkkk!” was all Ian could manage to squeeze from his throat before spewing his load over the top of Mickey’s fist, the excess spurting haphazardly onto the couch beneath him.

Now Mickey could let go. “Ian…” he muttered, barely able to form words, after what he’s just experienced---created---with the love of his life. 

“Tell me...Tell me I’m your bitch,” Ian panted breathlessly, his inner sensitivity after his orgasm magnified by Mickey’s continued thrusting.

Mickey was so close he could barely think, but he managed the words Ian had requested, and a few more, “That’s right...That’s right,” he hissed, digging his nails into Ian’s hips until he knew Ian felt it, “You’re my fuckin’ bitch! This what you want?”

“Yessss…” Ian exhaled contentedly as he felt Mickey’s tremendous eruption, painting the inside of him with his sweet satisfaction. 

The two collapsed onto the couch, Mickey lying on top of Ian, careful not to put any weight on Ian’s injured leg. 

“Ya know,” Ian begin, still fighting to catch his breath.

“What?” Mickey mumbled, rolling off Ian to the inside of the couch, then flipping Ian over to face him with a soft smile and a dazzling sparkle in his beautiful blue eyes.

“Fuck!” Ian grumbled, completely distracted and mesmerized by Mickey’s eyes and unable to stop staring into them.

“What?” Mickey repeated, puzzled by Ian’s seeming inability to express himself. This was, obviously, not the norm.

Ian had wanted to tell Mickey that his sexual prowess alone would be enough reason to marry him, but that his badass protective ways were also a huge turn-on. But after looking into his eyes, he wanted him to know how beautiful he was, how irresistibly charming and sexy. Then his thoughts hearkened back to the many times Mickey had risked everything for him, coming out to his dad and half of the Southside, escaping from prison, rolling on the cartel…

“I love you,” Ian finally answered. It seemed to be the easiest way to express it all.


	41. Up, Up and Away

Teresa had waited until the noises from the couch, among others, had stopped, before approaching the door to the office, outside of which she could hear Mickey directing Ian back into the wheelchair. “Ian…” she spoke nervously through the door.

“What’s wrong?” he called to her in response, Mickey looking on uneasily. 

“I just got a message from Petrov’s flip phone,” she answered, fighting to hold back the full-on meltdown that she could feel was coming. 

Before Teresa or Ian could say another word, Mickey burst out the door, grabbing the phone from Teresa’s hand. 

“Mickey! Wait!” Ian hollered, chasing after him in the wheelchair as fast as he could, nearly mowing Teresa down. Mickey had locked the wheels while helping Ian into the chair, so Ian was frustrated by the time he got the thing moving in a forward direction.

“Feds on way. No luck with the search. Do not reply.” the text read.

“What?! What did he say?!” Ian yelled, looking to Mickey, then Teresa, then back to Mickey again.

“The Feds are comin’...And they didn’t find T,” Mickey said flatly, adding, “Said not to reply.”

“Teresa! I’m sorry,” Ian spoke in a genuinely regretful tone, as he approached her in his wheelchair, stretching his arms out to her.

Teresa bent down, sobbing, and allowed Ian to comfort her momentarily, then standing quickly, upon hearing the growing whir of a helicopter, the vibrations from which shook the walls of the warehouse. She strode briskly toward the door, presumably to talk with the feds.

“No!” Mickey screamed in an effort to project his voice above the deafening din of the helicopter, “...the fuck knows who’s out there?!”

Teresa stood fast, turning to look back at Ian, and Mickey, who was now wheeling Ian back into the office. “C’mon,” he growled, motioning for Teresa to follow them, which she did.

“Now...stay the fuck in here ‘til I say it’s arright ta come out!” Mickey warned sternly, as he reached for the fully automatic glock he’d found and loaded from the stash in the warehouse earlier, on his way to the shower.

“And keep this locked, too!” he ordered as he turned the lock and pulled the door shut, amid emotional protests from Ian.

“Mick! No!” Ian cried out, a lump forming in his throat, his heart sinking with the realization that he was trapped in a wheelchair, behind a closed and locked door, completely powerless to stop Mickey, the man who had come to be his everything, from risking his own life to protect theirs. 

As the noise of the helicopter slowly died, Mickey cautiously approached the door, listening intently for any clue as to who was on the other side of it. 

“Mr. Milkovich! I’m Agent Connolly. We’ve come to take you and your friends to safety,” a voice shouted through the door. 

Mickey remained silent, hoping the guy would provide some type of information that would assure him that the man was, in fact, who he said he was, rather than bursting through the door, in which case Mickey might have to shoot him. After all, there was truly no way for Mickey to know, at least at this point, that he wasn’t just another Aryan stooge, coming to waste them all.

“Come on! I talked to Petrov, and to Gayle, Dr. Lange’s friend...your attorney. We...we understand what happened...We’re going to get you married to...it’s Ian, right?” 

Mickey edged closer to the door, figuring he was armed and could take out whoever was out there before getting killed himself. As he reached tentatively for the doorknob, he heard Ian shout, “Mickey! Wait!” as he rolled up on the situation in his wheelchair, in blatant defiance of Mickey’s instructions.

“His...his name is tattooed on your chest, she told me,” the agent continued, hoping to convince Mickey that it was safe to open the door. 

Mickey now felt a bit more at ease, but was still holding out for something more, especially since Ian had now made himself vulnerable. Mickey glared at Ian, his expression softening quickly as Ian’s look of utter terror registered with him. Mickey realized that Ian only wanted to ensure his safety, just as Mickey had made it a priority to protect Ian. Mickey gave Ian a small, shy smile, then finally spoke, “If you are who you say, then have Petrov call me...now.”

There was a brief silence, then Teresa’s phone rang. Mickey reluctantly took the call, remaining quiet as he put it on speaker. “Milkovich!” Petrov’s distinctive voice came over the speaker, “It’s me! Let Connolly in! And hurry your asses the fuck outta there! Whoever was holding T at the address you found...they’re gone...Could be on their way to you.”

Mickey ended the call, then unlocked the door and grasped the doorknob, slowly turning it, Glock still at the ready. Once the door was cracked enough, Agent Connolly stuck his badge through it, reiterating, “I’m here to help...you, Ian and Teresa.” 

Mickey held his gun on Connolly as he carefully began to open the door. “Drop your weapon,” Connolly countered, his own gun aimed at Mickey. 

Before Mickey could manage a response, Connolly was distracted by noises coming from behind him. He spun around instinctively, now aiming at the newest arrival.

“You’re gonna wanna drop it, G-Man!” a tall, hulking man shouted as he approached, wearing a black ski mask and wielding an Uzi.

“You drop yours!” Connolly hollered back, “My pilot has you in his site!”

“I wouldn’t wanna bet my life on that,” the masked man responded smugly.

In the blink of an eye, Mickey, instantly enraged by the familiarly creepy sound of the man’s voice, kicked the door open and literally shot his legs out from under him. 

“What now, Mother Fucker!?” Mickey screeched, as he approached the wailing and hobbled man, securing his Uzi, then keeping a safe distance as he covered Connolly, who cautiously approached the helicopter. 

Ian exited the warehouse, approaching the bloodied man, whom he immediately recognized as Burman, just as he was making a valiant attempt at using his arms to drag his lower body. Where to? Ian hadn’t a clue, but he wanted to be sure he would not get the opportunity to hurt Mickey.

“Stop right the fuck there, you piece of shit!” Ian screamed, aiming a fully-automatic Glock, just like the one Mickey had, at Burman’s head.

Seeing that Ian had Burman covered, Mickey proceeded to close the distance between himself and Connolly, who was poised to enter the passenger-side door of the helicopter’s cockpit, which had been left open.

“Don’t kill him!” Teresa pleaded, much to Ian’s surprise, upon catching sight of Ian with his gun pointed at Burman.

“What!?” Ian called back to her through gritted teeth, keeping Burman in his site. 

“This motherfucker deserves to die!” he growled, squeezing the gun’s grip more tightly, as he conjured up visions in his mind of Burman abusing Mickey---smashing his head repeatedly into the cinderblock wall in Solitary, violating him with his fat fingers as he savagely tore his earlobe with his foul-smelling mouth. Ian swallowed hard, taking a deep breath to stop himself from vomiting.

“If you kill him, you’ll make it harder for the court to punish the AB!” she reasoned. “Those monsters need to be brought to justice, too!” she whimpered, the images of Burman bringing a baseball bat, full-force, across T’s knees and extinguishing his cigarette on T’s cheek bringing the tears faster than she could wipe them away. 

She wanted Burman dead as much as Ian did, but she realized that, although Petrov and Ian had collectively taken care of the Aryans who were directly responsible for T’s shanking and anal violation with his own baton, the organization, itself, had been the authority behind it all, also having allowed Burman and other monsters like him to rape and beat inmates for decades. 

Ian maintained his position, his brain doing its best to process Teresa’s message, despite the intense anger and hatred that surged within him, having fueled his actions, up to this point. Arghhhhh!” Ian roared in frustration, finally resigning himself to a different method of getting revenge. 

“Okay, Teresa...but when I’m done with him, he’s gonna damn well wish he was dead!” Ian snapped, lifting himself out of the wheelchair and approaching Burman on foot, despite Teresa’s worry-filled admonitions.

Meanwhile, Mickey, having watched Connolly enter the cockpit of the helicopter, then hearing what sounded like a scuffle, followed by automatic gunfire, hot-footed it to the co-pilot’s entrance to investigate. Once inside, he quickly aimed the Uzi in the direction of the masked man who now occupied the pilot’s seat. 

“Drop it,” the man said with an eerily quiet cockiness that made Mickey sick to his stomach. He knew instantaneously that the guy had something over him, something that enabled him to call the shots, to have ultimate authority in the situation. 

Mickey quickly scanned the cockpit, seeing a federal agent bound and gagged on the floor between the seats, his eyes then tracking to the back of the helicopter, where he could see Connolly lying in a pool of his own blood, having been shot in the chest multiple times, obviously at point-blank range.

“And what if I don’t?” Mickey asked, putting on his trademark facade of self-confidence that had served him so well in countless scenarios throughout his life of danger, crime and incarceration.

“My man on the ground has that warehouse wired,” the man explained, once again in the same calm, cool and, to Mickey, unnerving manner. “All that ammo inside, too...” he mused with a sinister smirk, “So, unless you wanna see the whole place explode into flames, I suggest your full cooperation,” he finished, opening a small box with a detonator inside, as he mobilized the helicopter for take-off.

Mickey dropped the Uzi, watching helplessly as Ian’s now standing form, waved frantically, his mouth appearing to silently mouth Mickey’s name, becoming smaller and smaller, until it became nothing more than a bright red spot superimposed on an otherwise drab landscape.


	42. Pay Back's A Bitch!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some of you have not yet read the chapter before this one, so if this is you, please do so before reading this one. 
> 
> For the rest of you, I didn't want to leave you hanging the way the last chapter did. Some readers seemed to be confused, so hopefully, this chapter will clarify anything that was fuzzy.
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> P.S. There's some substantial violence in this chapter, though it doesn't affect our guys!

“You better start talking, you piece of shit!” Ian howled, as Teresa, having retrieved a first-aid kit from the warehouse, assisted him in administering life-saving care to a man they both considered to be one of the vilest creatures ever to walk the earth, which was saying a lot, considering their background and experiences.

Burman managed an evil smile, but said nothing. “Listen, fuckhead! You’re gonna tell us who came here with you, and where the fuck they are! Then you’re gonna tell us what happened to T,” Ian growled. 

Burman laughed maniacally, as Ian and Teresa continued their work to stop the substantial bleeding from the gunshot wounds Mickey had inflicted upon his legs, but he still didn’t utter a single word.

Ian could see that Teresa was at her wits end, after hearing the news that T was no longer being held at the location Sonny and Yuri had gone to visit. It was especially frustrating to have Burman right there in front of them, most likely privy to every last detail, yet remaining completely and purposely mum.

Ian felt terrible even mentioning Mickey’s unexpected departure with the feds---alone---without him, without Teresa. But he couldn’t help it. It didn’t make any sense to him, and he was worried.“Goddamnit! Why would the feds take Mickey and not us?!” Ian wailed, looking to Teresa in desperation, hoping for a logical explanation.

It was Burman, however, who, finally breaking his silence, provided an answer. “They didn’t, ya dumbass!” he sneered, enjoying the immediate and profound fear his comment struck in Ian, his eyes instantly welling up with tears. “My buddy’s got it all under control up there,” he continued, pointing up into the sky at the waning image of the helicopter above them.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Ian spat nastily, taking the offensive as he deliberately dug a gloved finger into one of Burman’s more superficial wounds.

Burman winced in pain, then gnashed his teeth threateningly, before replying, “One of my bros…takin’ him to school…gonna teach him what happens ta dirty Slav slimeballs who speak out against the Brotherhood. You gonna learn, too…Just like your boy, T,” he hissed with a sadistic glint in his eye.

“Fuck you!!” Teresa shrieked through the flood of tears that poured from her eyes, opening a bottle of rubbing alcohol and dumping it, wholesale, over Burman’s wounds.

“Ahhhh! You fuckin’ bitch!” he bellowed through clenched teeth, flailing his arms in a fruitless attempt to get a hold of her.

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” Ian threatened, “So you better tell us where the fuck they were going!”

“Someplace private,” he snarled with a knowing look, his demonic soul seemingly impervious to the significant pain he most surely felt in that moment.

Ian reflexively shoved his finger deeper into Burman’s leg, exerting as much force as possible, determined to get a real answer from him. “I’m not gonna stop until you tell me…” he panted, grabbing for a set of bandage scissors, which he shoved into the now heavily bleeding hole in Burman’s leg, Burman letting out a blood-curdling scream.

“I think I should make that call,” Teresa interrupted, hoping to cool Ian’s flaring temper by providing an alternative to the continued torture and probable killing of someone she considered, despite his lack of value as a human being, to be an important witness in the RICO case against the AB.

“He said not to though,” Ian replied, plunging the blunted blades of the scissors into a shrieking Burman, who made a last-ditch effort to sit up, swinging his fists wildly at Ian.

“Watch out, Ian!” Teresa warned, adding, “I think you should get back into your chair and come inside with me, while I get the phone.”

“Nope,” Ian muttered between labored breaths, as he fought to pin Burman’s hands over his head. Burman, at this point, had lost enough blood that he was becoming weak and virtually powerless to defend himself against Ian’s aggressive moves. Ian secured his wrists, using Burman’s own belt, which Ian had initially removed from his waist to use as a tourniquet.

Teresa disappeared into the warehouse, after which Ian heard the rumble of a sports car, pulling into the lot. The car, which Ian recognized as the one Sonny and Yuri had taken from the warehouse, pulled up and parked, the two men, hearing Burman’s cries of pain the moment they had opened their car doors, hopping out hurriedly to get a better look at the scene before them.

“Ian! Where’s Mickey?” Sonny yelled with great concern, considering he knew damn well that Ian’s ass wouldn’t be outside, out of his wheelchair, putting himself in harm’s way, if Mickey was anywhere around. “And what the fuck are you doing?” he said in a lower voice, clearly somewhat rattled by the spectacle in front of him.

“This shithead is the only one who knows where the fuck Mickey is headed...and probably where T is, too...And he won’t fucking tell us!” Ian croaked irately, digging the scissors even more deeply into Burman’s blood-soaked leg. 

“Holy fuck, Ian! Relax! We’ll take care of that!” Sonny said with the same signature Milkovich scowl that Ian had come to know, and love---sometimes---on his fiance’s face.

“Yeah, Sonny’s right! You shouldn’t be up on that leg of yours,” Petrov chimed in from over the phone. Teresa had put him on speaker as soon as he answered, as she ran to Ian, in hopes that something Petrov would say might temper the rage that Ian was unloading on the well-deserving, yet dangerously medically unstable Burman.

She had very quickly and generally filled Petrov in, concerning what Burman had shared, what he refused to share, and Ian’s violent reaction to that refusal. However, she could now see, as she observed Yuri and Sonny beginning an interrogation process of their own, that the Burman situation was being taken out of both her and Ian’s hands. Sonny knelt down next to Ian and helped him to stand, then lifted him over his shoulder, carrying him to his wheelchair and dumping him into it, without a single word.

Just as Petrov was about to address Ian, a phone buzzed. Both Sonny and Yuri briefly halted their activities to check their phones, but neither was the source of the buzzing. Sonny, who was kneeling where Ian had been, near Burman’s lower body, checked Burman’s pockets, finding hi’s phone and reading the newly-received text aloud,

“You got them? I’m ready.”

“What does this mean?!” Sonny demanded of the somehow still-conscious man that lay before him.

Burman grinned up at him weakly, his eyes beginning to glaze.

“Nevermind that!” Ian yelled from his wheelchair, “Just let me call! I’ll tell them he’s not ‘ready’, whatever that means! That I’ll kill him, if they don’t bring Mickey back!”

“We’ll handle this!” Sonny reiterated, adding, “And get her inside. She doesn’t need to see this!”

Ian glared at Sonny defiantly, feeling the need to control the situation, to ensure that Mickey would be brought safely back to him. 

“Ian...I get it. Don’t worry!” Sonny assured him again, pointing authoritatively at the door to the warehouse. Ian might have taken a swing at the guy, had Sonny not reminded him so much of Mickey at that moment. He knew Sonny had his best interest at heart, that he was protecting his cousin’s man, and, for that, Ian was grateful. It felt good to know that Mickey had family who had his back, even if they would never see each other again, once he and Mickey went into witness protection, if Mickey ever even came back to him. Ian frowned as the realities of his life situation sunk in, then quietly turned his wheelchair for the door.

Teresa was still steady talking to Petrov as she walked toward the warehouse, following closely behind Ian’s wheelchair, although he insisted that he move it himself, rather than having her push it. Only Mickey was allowed to do that.

As Ian continued to make his way back, Teresa and Petrov’s voices seemed to be fading out, until, eventually, he couldn’t hear them at all. He spun around to see Teresa had turned in the opposite direction and was approaching Sonny, Yuri and Burman. Still able to discern some of the specifics of what was going on there, even from the distance away that he now was, Ian knew Teresa had no business going back there, so he yelled for her, “Teresa!”

Fearing that something had happened to Ian, she turned and ran, opting, once she saw that Ian was safe, to hand the phone to Ian, rather than Sonny, as she had planned. Petrov had asked suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, to speak to ‘one of the guys’. Teresa, realizing the dire situation they were all in, had elected not to question him.

“Hello?” Petrov’s voice came through the speaker.

“Yeah,” Ian replied shortly, looking to Teresa for context. Teresa shrugged her shoulders, completely unaware of why Petrov had made the request.

“Take me off speaker, will ya?” Petrov demanded.

“Okay…” Ian replied, doing as Petrov had asked.

“Alright, listen...I have information on T…” Petrov began, pausing uncomfortably.

“Yeah?” Ian acknowledged, hoping to spur Petrov on to get to the point. Teresa looked on in absolute terror, waiting with bated breath for an explanation from Ian. She seemed to know, based on the look on Ian’s face, that the conversation was about T.

“One of the Aryans I brought to the feds alive just confessed to dumping T at a composting center outside Alexandria. I couldn’t get an address, but I’m assuming that…” Petrov’s voice suddenly cut out.

“Petrov!” Ian shouted into the phone, but there was no answer. Ian did the only thing he could do, wheeling himself over to Sonny and Yuri. Teresa, of course, followed him, begging for information all the way to where Sonny and Yuri were now standing over a badly beaten and cigarette-burned Burman. 

“Ask him where the composting center is!” Ian barked, looking as though he might take over the interrogation at any moment. 

“You heard the man!” Yuri hissed, as he bent Burman’s finger backward. Ian could see it hadn’t been the first, two of his other fingers looking to be dislocated, broken, or both.

“Please...I don’t know!” Burman yelped, tears dripping down the sides of his cigarette-burned face. 

“And did he call...about getting Mickey back here!?” Ian bellowed, lifting himself from his wheelchair and limping toward Burman.

“Ian!” Sonny chided, “Get back in the chair. We have some more aggressive methods...if he’s not gonna cooperate...but Teresa’s gotta go.”

Yuri helped Ian back to his chair, while Sonny reapplied backward pressure to Burman’s pinky, this time until it snapped, Burman crying out louder than Ian had yet heard, up to this point. He grinned. 

“How about on the other hand, Sonny?” he asked gleefully, loving the shit out of the torture Burman was being forced to endure, but wishing, at the same time, that it would yield better results. 

As Sonny reached for Burman’s other pinky, Burman screamed, “Eisenhower! Eisenhower Avenue! That’s all I know! Please!”

“Good...good!” Yuri praised him, “Now...time for a phone call.”

“Come on, Teresa!” Ian called to her, wheeling himself over to the Bentley Continental that Sonny and Yuri had been driving, “You got your phone?”

“Yes!” she answered in a shaky voice, then whispering, “Ian...is he alive?”

“I don’t know. But what I do know is, if he is, we’re his best chance at staying that way,” he spoke in the most comforting voice he could muster.

Teresa helped Ian into the driver’s seat, on his insistence, then packed his wheelchair into the trunk, the others seemingly too busy to even take note of their impending departure. 

_______________________________

Mickey sat, frozen, in the co-pilot seat of the cockpit, glancing over at the asshole who was flying the helicopter. He’d sent one text so far, but Mickey hadn’t taken the opportunity to make his move. Now he had to wait for another one. If he could get the detonator, which the guy was resting his hand on, next to his ass on his seat, we could subdue the guy easily, then free the agent who still lay, bound and gagged, between them. He’d already flashed his Glock at the agent, unbeknownst to the Aryan pilot, so the agent was aware that Mickey was biding his time. 

All of a sudden, as if the universe had been listening in on Mickey’s plan, the Aryan’s phone rang, catching him completely off-guard. As he reached to answer, Mickey made his move, grabbing for the detonator box and placing it well out of the man’s reach, while pulling his glock from the back of his pants and sticking it into the guy’s temple, all in one smooth stroke of coordinated motion. 

“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em...and get your ass down on the floor!” Mickey growled ferociously, the startled and frightened man obliging him without any hesitation.

“Now...untie him!” Mickey ordered, “And help him into the pilot’s seat.”

This time the man hesitated, seeming to be weighing his options. 

“NOW!” Mickey thundered, cracking him across the face with his gun. 

The Aryan sprung into action, the blood from his nose dousing his shirt at an alarming rate. Within seconds, the agent, who now identified himself as Agent Todd, was flying the helicopter, while Mickey worked to zip-tie the other man’s limbs together. 

“Can’t I just kill this piece a dogshit?” Mickey muttered as he struggled to finish the business of binding the woosey Aryan. 

“Unfortunately, no,” Agent Todd replied, “You don’t want any more trouble. We have everything set for you. Just keep your nose clean.”

“You mean…” Mickey began, Agent Todd quickly bringing his index finger to his lips.

“You’ll see,” he replied with a smile.


	43. Waiting Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just pumping out the chapters. Make sure you haven't missed any! Home from work today and simply can't stop! These guys are my addiction! Love them to pieces!
> 
> Next chapter already in the works!:)

Sonny and Yuri listened for a ‘hello’, or at least some verbal acknowledgement on the other end of the phone. They had just made the call from Burman’s phone to the number that his last text had come from, and were poised to force him to speak, to explain to the call recipient that they would kill Burman, if Mickey wasn’t returned to them, forthwith. Desperate for a response, they managed to torture Burman to the point of convincing him to speak first. 

“Tim!” Burman screeched as Sonny lifted one of his thumbnails from underneath with the screwdriver on his pocket knife. 

There was no response from the other end of the phone, but, as Yuri turned up the volume, they could all hear Mickey’s voice in the background, barking orders, then having an amicable conversation with someone, although the voices were muffled, obviously a good distance from the phone.

“Mickey!” Sonny yelled, hoping to be heard. No such luck. 

“Let’s just listen,” Yuri suggested, “Maybe if we’re real quiet, we’ll hear them better.

“Get in the car and listen,” Sonny responded.

“Hey!” Where the fuck’s the car?” Yuri asked.

“Shit! They must’ve taken it to look for T!” Sonny lamented. He and Yuri had been so caught up in their dealings with Burman that they hadn’t realized Teresa and Ian had left as soon as they had gotten the street name out of him.

“Fuck! We shoulda gone! Mickey’ll go fuckin’ ballistic...he finds out Ian’s out there, unprotected!” Sonny added.

“Let’s take the phone inside. This asshole ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Yuri reasoned with a snide snicker.

The two men walked into the warehouse together, Yuri holding the phone up to his ear the whole way. Once they were both inside with the door closed, they listened closely. Nothing, save for the sound of a whirling propellor. 

“Call Petrov on your phone!” Sonny suggested in desperation, “Maybe he’s heard somethin’. At the very least, he can advise us on what to do with the fuckhead outside.”

Yuri nodded silently, pressing ‘send’, after finding Petrov’s number on his flip phone. As Yuri’s call continued to go unanswered, Sonny heard an unfamiliar voice on the other end of the call on Burman’s phone, “Yeah, help me! Get his legs! And try to contain the blood as best you can.”

Suddenly, the rings to Petrov’s phone stopped. It was as though someone had picked up, but said nothing. This was customary among Russian operatives during times like these, so Yuri followed protocol, speaking first so Petrov could have the opportunity to recognize his voice before divulging that it was he who had answered.

“Who?” Yuri asked, to which Petrov responded, “Me.” Both now felt comfortable in knowing who was on the other end of the phone. 

“Any news?” Yuri asked.

“Following up on the composting lead,” Petrov replied, sounding somewhat winded. “Later,” he breathed, ending the call before Yuri could say anything about Ian and Teresa’s impromptu departure. 

“Well, maybe he’ll see them there,” he shrugged.

“Send him a fucking text! I just lost that guy!” Sonny wailed, devastated, “It sounded like they had landed, and that two people were carrying a third out of the ‘copter.”

“Sonny…” Yuri called to him, opening his arms to offer comfort, “You don’t know…”

Sonny cut him off, “Yeah, I know...I know…” He turned away abruptly, attempting to collect himself. 

“C’mere,” Yuri beseeched him, this time approaching him and refusing to be rebuffed. Sonny collapsed into Yuri’s arms, holding his breath, as he often did, rather than letting his emotions out.

“Listen,” Yuri spoke softly, as he would to Sonny, and Sonny alone, “Your cousin is a tough motherfucker! I refuse to believe he’s doing anything but moving a body right now. I just know he’s gonna come through all this shit. And he’ll marry that beautiful, badass redhead, too. You just wait and see.”

Sonny couldn’t help but smile. Yuri had a way of making even the worst of predicaments seem not quite as bad, and Sonny loved that about him. “Thanks, man!” Sonny whispered, breathing a small sigh of relief as he allowed Yuri to hold him, if only for a moment.

___________________________________

Teresa’s GPS guided her and Ian to Roosevelt Avenue, and from there, finding the composting center was a piece of cake. The search for T, however, proved to be much more difficult. The center was filled with basins, overflowing with rotting garbage, none of which seemed, on the surface, to have a person or body in it. Of course, Teresa refused to leave any stone unturned, taking it upon herself to wade through every composting pile in the place, and coming up completely empty in the end. Ian was relegated to being the ‘look out’, since he couldn’t walk, under normal circumstances, and certainly wasn’t up to the challenge of traversing mounds of biodegrading food and paper products. 

Being on look out, of course, gave Ian way too much time to think. His mind mulled over the possibilities, all the scenarios that could have played out for Mickey in the helicopter, the most horrific ones dominating his thoughts, driving him absolutely insane with worry. After all he and Mickey had survived together, he now knew that he couldn’t live without him, or least he wouldn’t want to. He wondered how he ever doubted what they had, the memories of their trek to the Mexican border and his subsequent abandonment of Mickey weighing on him heavily, as they often did, anytime he found himself separated from Mickey without any control over the situation at hand.

It wasn’t until he spun his head in the opposite direction that he noticed an ambulance pulling away from the rear entrance of the center. Immediately, he wondered if T might be inside. He tried to get Teresa’s attention, but she was hip-deep in biodegradable refuse at the far end of the large lot, and couldn’t hear a word, despite his screaming at the top of his lungs. “A lot of good his ‘looking out’ was doing,” he told himself. 

Then, finally, something happened. Just as Teresa had finished sifting through the last basin, looking as though she was about to lose her shit any second, her phone, which she had left with Ian, buzzed. She had received a text from Petrov.

“Meet me at the corner of Roosevelt and McCombs,” it read.

Ian understood this was the phone they had last reached Petrov on, and that he could most likely rely on this text actually having come from him, but Ian also knew there was a lot of crazy shit going down, so it was impossible to say for sure who had just sent this text.

“Teresa! Let’s go!” Ian yelled to her.

Teresa’s face brightened in anticipation of good news. The look she gave Ian tugged at his heartstrings. He hated to disappoint her. He knew, first hand, how she was feeling. His mind turned to Mickey, once again, and the possible explanations and outcomes of what amounted to a kidnapping. He could be in the same condition as T had been, or worse. 

By the time Teresa got to him, Ian’s eyes were filled with tears, her facial expression mirroring his the moment their eyes met. “What?!” she screamed frantically, the strong odor of the compost wafting up to Ian’s nose, gagging him. 

“You got a text from Petrov...” Ian mumbled, coughing and choking, in spite of his marked effort not to. Teresa swiped the phone from his hand to read the text, before he could continue.

“Let’s go!” she screamed.

“Wait! I wanna...make sure it’s him. Is there something...anything you could ask that only he would know?” Ian stammered.

Teresa began texting. “What are you asking?” Ian demanded nervously.

“The name of the bar he took me to one night,” she answered.

Ian gave her a quizzical look. “It’s not what you think!” she snapped defensively, as she received confirmation that it was, in fact, Petrov who had texted her.

“Let’s go!” she repeated insistently, walking behind Ian and beginning to push his chair. He thought briefly of taking the reins, maneuvering his own chair, but then decided to allow her the control, and to keep her downwind. She really stunk, and he didn’t want to start gagging again, especially in his current mindset. 

He couldn’t get Mickey out of his head, not even for a second. How he missed him, ached to be with him! His shimmering, expressive, ice blue eyes, the exhilarating touch of his hand, his comforting warmth, the full body tingle that spread over him every time they kissed, the indescribably exquisite feeling of Mickey letting go, enjoying their physical and spiritual union to its fullest, opening himself completely, so beautifully vulnerable, so utterly intoxicating---he missed all of him, craved him like the ocean does the sand, unable to stay away, but equally incapable of remaining. Ian promised himself this would be the last time they would ever be apart, if only he could have him back, just once more. 

“C’mon!” Petrov called to them from an unmarked, white van, the sliding door of which was open about six inches. As soon as they were close enough, Petrov slid the door open all the way and yanked Teresa inside. He then helped Ian out of his chair, managing somehow to get him up into the van as well. Finally, he collapsed the wheelchair, tossed it into the back of the van, and slammed the door shut. 

“Taking you to headquarters. There’s an underground bunker. The classes are held there. Here! Eat these!” he demanded, shoving a sandwich at each of them, “Then try and get some rest. It’s gonna be a long night.”

“Petrov…” Teresa mumbled, unable to even think about eating, the way she was feeling, not to mention the stench that was emanating from her waste-crusted body and clothing. 

“Just eat...please! I don’t have anything definite for you right now. Let’s just...wait ‘til I do,” Petrov insisted, the look on his face convincing Ian not to ask any questions.

Ian nodded silently, turning to face Teresa. Her face was buried in her hands, as she sat whimpering to herself. He decided to leave well enough alone, settling in for what he anticipated would be a long, uncomfortable ride.

Surprisingly, they arrived at their destination in what seemed to be less than half an hour, the van pulling up to what appeared to be the brush-covered side of a large building. Then suddenly, as if the earth had opened up and swallowed them, the van and the pavement beneath it literally sunk, finally resting in an underground parking area. The driver swiftly drove the vehicle into a corner space and parked.

As Petrov assisted Ian and Teresa in exiting the van, another one just like it descended into the same spot they had. The sliding door of the second van slid open with a loud crash, exposing a bloody sheet-covered form on a stretcher. 

Petrov pushed them along, pointing toward an alarmed doorway, both Ian and Teresa fearing the worst, but too terrified to ask any questions.


	44. Questions

An unmarked white van arrived at the warehouse, Petrov having finally gotten back to Sonny and Yuri, acknowledging receipt of the text about Ian and Teresa, and telling them to prepare Burman, as best as possible, for transport. 

Burman was a hot, sniveling mess when the two feds exited the van, fortunately with a stretcher in tow, the four men making quick work of wrapping Burman in plastic to protect themselves and the interior of the van from his blood, which oozed from multiple sites on his body.

“Needs medical attention---stat!” one of the feds said to the other with a tone of mock urgency.

“Yeah, we’ll take care of it...in-house,” the other replied with a cocky grin that made Yuri chuckle. Sonny shot him a disapproving glare. Yuri had always tended to become too familiar with strangers, too quickly, at least as far as Sonny was concerned. Simply put, the guy was just too friendly, a trait that had, ironically enough, been responsible for earning him Sonny’s affections early on. 

Yuri was the first person who had ever been consistently kind to Sonny. Sonny, hailing from the Milkovich brood, was no stranger to the same type of abuse, neglect and coercion into the criminal lifestyle that Mickey had endured, so Yuri, to him, was a breath of fresh air. In fact, he couldn’t have been happier when the boss paired them up for their first ‘job’. 

Of course, neither of them had ever dared to admit to anyone, including themselves, that they had ever felt an attraction to their own gender. It just wasn’t something mobsters talked about. Over the years, however, the feelings between the two became so strong, they were undeniable, and by the time their relationship became obvious to others, they were so well known and feared as one of the most badass duos in the Russian Mob, no one dared to say a fucking word.

Yuri immediately wiped the grin off his face, remaining silent and stone-faced for the rest of their ride. Now Sonny felt bad, but it still beat the alternative, in his mind. He couldn’t allow him to take the chance of letting his guard down until he knew damn well that these ‘suits’ could be trusted. 

Sonny’s concerns became heightened when the van they rode in suddenly seemed to plummet into darkness, without so much as a ‘heads up’ from their federal chaperones. Fortunately, Sonny’s fears were somewhat allayed at the sight of two other white vans, one of which Petrov had just made a run toward.

“Petrov!” Yuri yelled as the van door slid open, Sonny elbowing him in the ribs before he could say another word. 

Yuri and Sonny watched as Petrov, wearing a pair of latex gloves, ducked into the van beside theirs, emerging almost instantly with what looked to be an Uzi, in a sealed plastic evidence bag. “What the fuck?!” Yuri breathed, loud enough that only Sonny could hear. 

“Ready?” one of the feds called from the back of the van, as he opened both doors in preparation for removing Burman. 

“Let’s do it!” Sonny replied, all four men gathering around Burman’s stretcher in order to finesse the hulking man out of the van. In a matter of minutes, they were wheeling Burman through the very same alarmed door Petrov had guided Ian and Teresa through only moments before. 

“Alright, we have him from here. Gonna get him put together a bit before his interrogation,” the same fed who’d made the first comment explained with a friendly smirk in Yuri’s direction. Yuri blushed and looked away, but not before Sonny caught sight of the whole thing. 

“...’s go,” Sonny muttered in annoyance, pointing in the opposite direction, as Petrov waved them on. He led them through another alarmed entrance, then veered to the right, landing them in a small, hotel-style room set-up. “Get a shower, eat, use the toilet...whatever you need...Then meet me in here,” he directed, pointing to another door down the hall. 

_____________________

Petrov used a fob to buzz through the second door he’d just pointed out to Yuri and Sonny, immediately being greeted by Teresa and Ian, both freshly showered and clamouring for information. They had talked in Petrov’s absence and, together, had worked up the courage to confront him about his evasiveness. 

Ian spoke first, using his typical, straight-forward approach, “Look, I...I know you...don’t have all the particulars, but anything you could tell us would go a long way toward helping us sleep tonight.”

Petrov looked up from the large collection of notifications, missed calls and texts he had amassed over the course of the past few hours, sighing deeply as he considered his response.

“Okay, well...first of all, I’m still waiting for…”

Before he could finish, Yuri and Sonny knocked, identified themselves and were ushered into the room, wearing loose-fitting athletic gear, just like the rest of them, followed closely by Agent Todd and a second agent that no one else recognized. They spoke to one another in hushed tones, as Teresa glared at Petrov, her eyes imploring him to continue, though, judging by his demeanor, she feared what she might hear.

“W-Well…” Petrov stuttered, obviously feeling quite uncomfortable with the entire situation. After all, he was a prison warden, not a federal agent, and yet all of his friends and associates expected him to have all of the answers—-to know what to do, “You’ll have to talk with Agent Todd. He knows about all that...And as for T...Teresa, how about if we take a walk.”

“No!” Teresa insisted, “If there’s bad news, I wanna have my friend with me.” Petrov looked hurt. He thought they had become pretty close. He definitely considered Teresa to be a good, if not one of his best friends. Apparently, Teresa didn’t have the same level of affection for him that he did for her. 

“Not...not that you aren’t my friend. It’s just...well, Ian is...he’s a kindred spirit, I guess you’d say…” Teresa tried to explain. Petrov frowned.

“Please...I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just...I can use all the support I can get,” she reasoned in an attempt to smooth things over. 

Petrov looked away, taking a deep breath in preparation for the incomplete and probably ‘classified’ story he was being pressured into telling. “Okay, then,” he began softly, attempting to avoid attracting the attention of the agents in the room. “T was recovered from the composting center.” 

He paused briefly, searching his mind for the best order, the best words---Shit! How could he share this with her? He had agonized over this since the moment he’d learned of T’s whereabouts. He knew she’d be crushed, and he wasn’t prepared to see her that way. After all they’d been through, he had come to love her. He understood and respected her feelings and relationship with T, but that didn’t take away from how much he, himself, cared for her.

“And?” Ian prodded impatiently, the look of absolute terror on Teresa’s face driving him to assert himself. 

“And, like I said before, I don’t have much…” he tried to finish, leaving things as vague as possible for the moment, since he still hadn’t received any updates, which gave him cause for worry.

“Why don’t you just tell me what it is that you DO know? Like, is he alive?” she questioned with a saltiness in her voice that telegraphed her frustration and desperation.

“Teresa, I...I haven’t heard anything for...for a while...I know they were working on him…” Petrov shared reluctantly.

“Well, what did they say?! What did...What did those monsters DO to him? Tell me!!” she demanded in a harsh, strident tone that echoed throughout the room. Both agents looked up from their conversation momentarily, the room growing eerily silent.

Petrov blushed uncomfortably, waiting for them to resume talking, before responding to Teresa. “I’m sorry…” he muttered, under his breath, “This is why I didn’t want to say anything. All I know is that he was alive when they picked him up…” Petrov trailed off, swallowing the word ‘barely’, which had threatened to escape his lips at the end of his sentence.

Petrov didn’t need to say that T had been near death; Teresa could feel that something was horribly amiss. She prayed he was still alive. She wanted to go to him, to be with him, to hold his hand and encourage him the way she had before, but she knew, based on all of the secrecy surrounding their arrival to their current location, that there was absolutely no chance of that. 

The sound of Agent Todd’s voice cut through the tense atmosphere of the room like a knife, putting an end to the collective murmur of the group.

“This is Agent Baldin,” Todd announced, “He will be taking everyone’s statements. He has already taken mine and one other. He will see each of you individually. It is of the utmost importance that you share every detail you are able to recall, as it pertains to the culpability of any member or accomplice of the Aryan Brotherhood. Your testimony in the RICO case against the Brotherhood is expected, in exchange for your protection. Another condition of this protection is your entry into the Federal Witness Protection Program, which carries with it a whole host of requirements and responsibilities, all of which will be presented in tomorrow’s class. You are all required to attend this class. Please hold any questions regarding the program until then.”

“Ms. Lewis, I would like to speak with you first,” Baldin said in a decisive tone. She glanced at Petrov, then Ian, for a split-second each, her deep sadness permeating her surroundings and spilling into Ian like a poisonous venom. His eyes filled with tears as he watched her slumping form follow Beldin out the door. 

Agent Todd picked up where Baldin had left off, “The rest of you will be escorted to your sleeping rooms. When Agent Baldin is ready for you, you will be brought to the Interrogation Suite. Until then, you will be unable to leave your rooms for any reason. You are to relinquish any and all communication devices at this time. I will wand you on your way out,” Todd explained, standing at the exit, wand at the ready. 

Once everyone had been stripped of all electronics, they were each deposited in their rooms, Yuri and Sonny being housed together, Petrov and Ian each being led to separate rooms. Ian’s escort explained that he was being taken to a handicap-accessible room with one king-sized bed and an extra large bathroom built to accommodate a wheelchair.

“Thank you,” Ian responded, acknowledging the man’s kindness with a polite, put-on smile, then proceeding to fall apart the moment the door to his room shut behind him. In his mind, the fact that he and Teresa were being taken to give their statements, without being briefed on Mickey or T’s whereabouts or condition, said it all. The feds needed to know all that Ian and Teresa had witnessed, and they could see, reading their levels of emotional distress upon arrival, that if they were to share any bad news with either of them, they might not be willing or able to be questioned, which could put the whole case in jeopardy. 

Ian had put on a brave front all day, and now, finally, he let himself go. “Mickey! I’m sorry!” he sobbed, over and over, until he had no voice left, his eyes, nose and lips red and swollen, his facial expression one of broken resignation. 

When he heard the knock at his door, he decided to make it his mission to tell the feds everything he knew, to make the Aryan S.O.B.s, who had destroyed so many lives, pay for all they’d done. It might be all he had left to live for, and he’d have to make that be enough for him. He hoped the satisfaction of putting away as many of those scumbags as possible might provide him some solace, in the event that the worse-case scenario became a reality. 

“Come in,” Ian called out, bravely approaching the door, preparing himself mentally for the anguish of reliving so much of what he’d tried so hard to forget.

As Ian reached for the door, Mickey burst through it, diving at him and throwing his arms around him. “Fuck, Ian! Never thought I’d…” Mickey began tearfully.

“Shhhh! Don’t fucking say it!” Ian interrupted, his heart leaping in his chest as he pressed his lips softly to Mickey’s, then cradled Mickey’s precious face in his hands. “You okay?” Ian asked, his eyes taking in every breathtaking inch of Mickey’s beauty as he watched him nod in the affirmative. 

“Mick! I was so fucking scared!” Ian breathed, tears of joy and relief streaming down his pale, freckled cheeks, his chest heaving as he unabashedly bawled his eyes out. 

“Ian!” Mickey yelled again, barely able to contain his excitement, wiping at Ian’s tear-soaked face, then lifting him from his wheelchair and carrying him over to the bed. Ian was genuinely taken aback by Mickey’s unexpected arrival, and further shocked by his uncharacteristic, over-the-top enthusiasm, but he smiled anyway, feeling incredibly blessed and thankful as fuck to be in Mickey’s loving arms again.

“They gave me...gave US something...” Mickey grew suddenly silent as he stood up, digging into the back pocket of his government-issue sweats, retrieving a folded piece of paper and handing it to Ian.

Ian unfolded the paper, quickly scanning it. “Marriage License!” Ian squealed,“Mick! Finally! It’s really gonna happen! When? Where?” Ian was spewing questions faster than Mickey could ever attempt to answer them, even if he had known the answers, which he didn’t. 

“Ian, I don’t know nothin’...’cept I love you and we’re gettin’ hitched as soon as we can,” Mickey replied, straddling Ian on the bed and staring down into his striking, green eyes, so bright and inviting, they literally took Mickey’s breath away. 

Nearly all signs of Ian’s previous meltdown seemed to vanish instantly, replaced with a look of love and adoration, a complete surrender to anything Mickey wanted, an unspoken agreement to be Mickey’s, and only Mickey’s, for life, come what may.

“Fuck, I love you,” Ian breathed, Mickey lowering his face to hover over Ian’s, the scorching intensity of their attraction drawing him closer, until their lips touched, a familiar tingle rushing over Ian’s body like a tidal wave.

“Want you…” Mickey whispered breathlessly between kisses, his body’s reaction mirroring Ian’s. Then came the knock on the door, the one Ian had been dreading, but knew he had to answer.

“Fuck!” Ian hollered, his tight balls aching already.

“Mr. Gallagher? Agent Baldin is ready for you,” a voice called through the door.

“So am I,” Mickey purred temptingly into Ian’s ear, grinding himself against Ian, immediately spreading goosebumps over Ian’s entire body.

“Mr. Gallagher!” the voice barked impatiently.

“Coming…” Ian huffed, Mickey begrudgingly pulling him up to a seated position, then maneuvering the wheelchair and helping him into it. 

“You’re gonna be,” Mickey’s sensual whisper tickled Ian’s eardrum, lighting his inner fire yet again, Ian letting out a heavy, longing sigh. Mickey lightly pressed his lips to Ian’s temple and wheeled him to the door. 

Ian smiled. In spite of everything, life was good again.


	45. Fighting Reality

Ian was emotionally drained and physically exhausted by the time he was finally escorted back to his room, two and a half hours after he’d been summoned to make his statement. He hoped Mickey would be asleep when he got back, knowing how burned out he had to be, after the day he’d put in. He didn’t even want to think about rehashing any of his experiences, or discussing any of the feelings he was having. It was what it was, and no amount of talking was going to change a thing.

As it turned out, Mickey had been too worried about Ian to even consider falling asleep, rushing the door as he heard the doorknob turning.

“Christ! They had you forever!” Mickey remarked, pressing his puckered lips into the crown of Ian’s head, then helping him out of his wheelchair. 

“You gotta use the bathroom? Brush your teeth? They got everything here,” Mickey continued matter-of-factly, trying to avoid becoming too emotional. He knew they both needed sleep, but he was so overwhelmed by Ian’s return and the promise of their marriage, their safety---their forever---that he was having a tough time calming down.

“Thanks, man,” Ian responded with a yawn, as he insisted on standing, with Mickey’s help. “I just can’t fucking sit in this chair anymore!” he complained, “Gotta stretch my legs...get this one working again, ya know?” 

Mickey nodded in agreement, though he knew Ian needed physical therapy, and wondered whether they’d ever see Dr. Lange or the physical therapist and orthopedic doctor she had recommended. He also let his mind turn, for a brief moment, to Ian’s mental health. How would all of that work? Would they be able to get all of the medication Ian needed to stay even? He made a mental note to ask about these things at the class they were to attend the next day. He knew he had to be careful not to overstep his bounds, that Ian wasn’t a big fan of Mickey doting on him too much. He liked his independence, and refused to be a burden to Mickey. Maybe they could discuss it in the morning, and Ian could do the asking, he thought.

Mickey allowed Ian to, once again, use him as a crutch, which enabled him to bear a bit of his weight on the leg. Ian was also able to climb into the bed with only minimal assistance from Mickey. He then turned onto his good side, enveloping Mickey in his warm embrace, burrowing his nose into his sweet-smelling neck, and wrapping the top half of his splinted limb around Mickey’s hip. 

In no time, both were sleeping soundly, their peaceful slumber all too soon interrupted by Ian’s mumbling, which quickly escalated to shouting. Mickey slid from under his arm and leg carefully, then turned to face him, touching the side of his face gently to try and wake him. 

“No! I can’t!” Ian wailed, his eyes squeezed shut tightly, tears somehow still managing to escape, his mouth curled into an anguished grimace. 

“What? What can’t ya do?” Mickey demanded, shaking Ian’s upper arm vigorously, determined to wake him this time, before he got any worse. 

Ian’s eyes flew open and stared menacingly into Mickey’s. “It’s okay, man,” Mickey tried to reassure him, rubbing his back lightly. Ian’s body stiffened and he let out a low growl. Mickey decided, in light of Ian’s current mood, not to question him about what must have been a horrible nightmare, and to just wait him out instead.

Ian’s expression softened as reality crept over him. “Sorry,” he murmured, flipping Mickey around to his original position, the comforting warmth of his breath on Mickey’s neck lulling Mickey back to sleep almost instantly.

“Mick,” Ian called out only moments afterward, with enough volume to startle Mickey awake. Mickey jumped, immediately throwing Ian’s arm and leg off him, before realizing his mistake.

“Sorry, man. You okay?” Mickey muttered with sincerity.

“Yeah...it’s just...my family, ya know?” Ian began.

Mickey let out a heavy sigh, instinctively recognizing, at that moment, that he was in for a long night. “What about ‘em?” he asked, immediately wishing he hadn’t, but knowing, full well, that they were going to talk about them either way.

“I just can’t imagine never being able to see or talk to them again,” Ian explained with a forlorn look on his face.

“Yeah, well, we ain’t got much of a choice, the way I see it,” Mickey replied honestly. 

Mickey was right. After all, not going into the program would pretty much guarantee their assassinations, unless, of course, they reneged on their agreement to testify, in which case Ian would very likely be returned to Stateville, or some other prison, to serve his full sentence. Mickey didn’t even know what would happen to him in that scenario, but he knew it wouldn’t be good, and that he and Ian would probably never see each other again, much less get married.

Mickey stayed up for hours, discussing with Ian what, to him, amounted to a series of non-options, in hopes of talking some sense into him. At one point, he became so frustrated, he asked, “Where’s all this comin’ from anyway? This is the first I hear this shit from you!”

“See, and that’s the problem! You can’t understand because my family and yours are...are different!” Ian snapped angrily. 

“No shit!” Mickey shrugged, “Sonny’s here helpin’ us out, and the only one who’s even lifted a finger for you is Fiiona, who fuckin’ bailed as soon as that lawyer wanted any real money. Bet she’s not lyin’ awake at night worryin’ ‘bout your ass! If she was, you’d a heard from ‘er!”

“Fuck you, Mickey!” Ian growled, shoving him away and attempting, unsuccessfully, to get out of bed on his own. His leg collapsed from under him and he fell to the floor with a loud thud, followed by a muffled cry of pain. 

“Damnit, Ian!” Mickey yelled, throwing the covers off and racing to his aid.

Ian tried to refuse Mickey’s help, but Mickey wouldn’t have it. He encircled Ian’s flailing arms with his own, lifting him back up onto the bed, despite Ian’s vehement protests, after which Ian proceeded to fight Mickey, getting in a few good punches to Mickey’s face before Mickey regained control over him. Mickey subdued Ian with great care, so as not to hurt him, in spite of the bloody lip he was now sporting, thanks to Ian’s tantrum. 

At this point, Mickey was so pissed, there was a part of him that wanted to just beat the shit out of Ian and be done with it, but there was something about letting loose on Ian when he couldn’t even walk that went against Mickey’s grain. Besides, what would be the point of hurting someone he loved more than he loved himself? They had both already done enough of that. He had hoped, prior to this incident, that they were finished with that kind of shit.

Finally, Mickey, sensing that Ian was just about spent, his stamina clearly not what it had been, prior to his injury, relented, throwing himself onto his back and putting his hands up in surrender.

“Look! You wanna...kick my ass...go for it!” Mickey panted, their impromptu brawl leaving him winded.

Ian shook his head, breathing hard, himself, as he collapsed on top of Mickey, their sweat-soaked bodies and Mickey’s bloody mouth serving as reminders to Ian of how out of hand he’d gotten. He could feel Mickey’s heart pounding as he lay there, his head atop Mickey’s sturdy chest. 

“I’m sorry,” they said simultaneously, Ian raising his upper body onto his hands to get a better look at Mickey’s face. He could now see that Mickey’s right eye was red and swollen, in addition to the blood that oozed from his extra puffy lower lip.

“Sexy as fuck,” Ian breathed as he lowered his own mouth to Mickey’s, sucking playfully at Mickey’s rapidly swelling lip, then blowing softly into his ear. Mickey arched his ass up off the bed, rubbing his hardening cock against Ian’s, as Ian began to toy with Mickey’s right nipple, twisting, pulling, pinching, all the while licking and sucking at his tender neck and countering Mickey’s hip movements.

“Fuck…” Mickey moaned faintly as he ran his tattooed fingers through the longish, curly, two-tone, red and black hair at the nape of Ian’s neck.

Ian smiled against the side of Mickey’s sensitive neck, slowly kissing and nibbling his way down to his left nipple, which he took into his mouth roughly, running his tongue over it, then pinning it between his teeth and biting down mercilessly, while still pulling and pinching the other. Mickey squealed in pained arousal, grinding himself fiercely against Ian’s stomach, which now hovered over his stiff, boxer-clad member. 

Ian, finally relenting on Mickey’s nipples, trailed his tongue and lips southward, stopping here and there to leave his mark, sucking and biting feverishly at Mickey’s salty flesh as his fingers traced over the curves of Mickey’s hip-bones. 

Ian’s skillful hands worked their way underneath Mickey, cupping his deliciously round buttocks in them, fondling them, gripping them tightly as he made his way down over Mickey’s taut stomach to his thick, pre-cum-soaked phallas, which he took into his hungry mouth so slowly and deliberately, Mickey couldn’t help but beg for more. 

Ian chuckled, teasing him relentlessly, Mickey thrusting his fat cock up into Ian’s hot, wet mouth in desperation. 

“Legs up, ass out!” Ian commanded. 

Mickey was so fucking horny, he would have done virtually ANYTHING to get off, and Ian’s bossy demands only got him harder, if that was even possible. He obeyed immediately, lifting his legs in a straddling position, literally folding himself in half to allow Ian unlimited access to his own personal trifecta---his throbbing phallus, his aching balls and his eager asshole. 

“Mmmm…” Ian hummed sensually, poking tentatively into Mickey’s opening with his tongue as he continued to stroke him leisurely. Ian wasn’t in a hurry to satisfy Mickey. He was in the mood to leave him on simmer for a while, something Mickey always came to appreciate in retrospect, but in the moment, he was frustrated as hell! Everything felt so fucking good! And yet, he just couldn’t get enough.

“You’re a fuckin’ tease!” he whined as Ian ever so gradually delved more deeply into his sweet ass with his talented tongue.

‘What’s your hurry? We have the rest of our lives,” Ian breathed huskily, the heat of his words stoking Mickey’s burgeoning fire, while also conveying the message that Ian was in it for the long haul, family ties be damned. 

Mickey grinned like a schoolboy heading to recess. “No hurry,” he hissed through his teeth as Ian abruptly introduced a well-lubed index finger, while sucking intermittently at his ball-sack and licking his taint.

“Oh fuck, Ian! So...fuckin'...good…” Mickey almost sang, his voice rising in pitch as Ian continued to finger-fuck him aggressively, pounding him and stretching him, all while taunting the fuck out of him with his oral expertise.

“Don’t you dare do it!, Mick!” Ian snarled, slowing his efforts in anticipation of Mickey’s next line, which he was sure was going to be a warning of his impending orgasm. 

“Ian...Fuck...you got me...Fuck!” Mickey whimpered, his body quivering with the beginnings of an explosion he was incapable of stemming. 

Ian, recognizing the fragility of his lover’s condition, quickly lined his own massive cock up with Mickey’s waiting hole and began his halting entry, gazing into Mickey’s pleading eyes, silently taking in his tormented cries of desperation, the heat of his frenzied desire, Mickey’s impassioned counter-movements resonating powerfully throughout Ian’s body.

All at once, Ian could hold back no longer, Mickey’s intense urgency rushing over him, seeping into him, flowing through him, becoming his own. 

“Fuck, Mick!” he yelled hoarsely, his throat dry, his every nerve on the brink of overload, as he stared helplessly into the two tempestuous oceans that were Mickey’s eyes, completely lost in the magnificent feeling of their glorious union, as their bodies collided exquisitely, their simultaneous combustion accompanied by a most satisfied, almost melodic chorus of curse words, interspersed with declarations of undying love and adoration. 

As their bodies stilled, the buzz of their afterglow still upon them, Ian lowered his face to gently kiss Mickey’s swollen eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Mick,” he breathed with an apologetic smile that melted Mickey instantly. 

“I’ll be okay with this, I promise. I have no choice; I love you so fucking much…” Ian continued, burying his head affectionately into Mickey’s chest. 

Mickey instinctively locked his arms around Ian, remaining quiet, deep in thought about the whole exchange that had taken place prior to their ridiculously satisfying romp.

“I really am sorry,” Ian reiterated, Mickey’s silence beginning to unnerve him.

“Yeah…” Mickey sighed, gently caressing the side of Ian’s face with his fingers, “I know.”


	46. Top-Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Faithful Readers,
> 
> Glad you're still along for the ride. Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. I hope you will enjoy it. Would love to get your impressions! Comments always welcome and appreciated. 
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> P.S. NEW READERS! A Shameless plug for my other works, all of which are part of my South of the Border Series, and are published right here on AO3 under my username, gallavichfanfic! I hope you will consider reading them at your convenience!
> 
> Thanks again for reading!

Mickey awoke to the sound of his own moans, the warmth of Ian’s moist mouth performing the most intensely pleasurable fellatio stirring him to near climax before he’d even had a coherent, waking thought. “Gallagher…” he breathed huskily amid his own heavy, erratic huffs, grabbing at the messy, bed-ravished, black and red tufts of hair atop Ian’s head as he felt his whole body tighten in anticipation of his inevitable release. 

“Fuckkkkk!” Mickey yelled, his entire being overcome with sublime fulfillment as his orgasm washed over him in ecstatic waves, ebbing and flowing in rapid succession as Ian sucked and swallowed to the last. 

Mickey rubbed his eyes sleepily, stopping abruptly as a twinge of pain shot through him. “Owww...Shit...” he murmured to himself, Ian quickly climbing up his body to investigate. 

“Yeah...saw that when I woke up. Figured I’d try to make it up to ya,” Ian reasoned, taking note of the pool of ever-darkening blood in Mickey’s right under-eye area.

“I’m gettin’ a shiner, huh?” Mickey asked with a groggy rasp to his voice, although he already knew the answer by the guilty look on Ian’s face.

“...’s alright. Just let me get to ya, before we gotta go to this thing...Gotta talk to ya beforehand, too,” Mickey mumbled as he flipped Ian onto his back, lowering his head toward Ian’s groin area in earnest.

“No...not now…” Ian objected, pulling Mickey’s face up to his and kissing him lightly, careful not to aggravate his inflamed, scabbed-over lower lip. He couldn’t allow Mickey to endure any more pain for his benefit, especially since he was the cause of it all in the first place.

Ian watched as a look of disappointment registered on Mickey’s battered face. Ian kissed him again, with heartfelt tenderness, communicating, without words, the deep sorrow he felt for inflicting those injuries upon his beautiful, innocent man.

“Got a shower already, so it’s all yours,” Ian said with a shy smile, hoping Mickey would forgive him, so he could forgive himself. He knew that once he was back in Mickey’s good graces, it would only a matter of time before he, himself, got over what he’d done.

Mickey stared at him in shocked surprise. “You showered on your own?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, got a bath, if you wanna get technical about it, but yeah...couldn’t sleep...gotta start doing this shit on my own anyway! Tired of being a pain in your ass...well...not really,” he said with a grin, Mickey chuckling at the accidental joke they both got immediately.

“Well, arright then, but I was gonna talk to ya in the shower so…” Mickey began, Ian cutting him off. 

“Yeah, okay, I’ll come in with the chair while you shower,” Ian suggested. “Gotta brush my teeth again anyhow,” he laughed, lightly trailing his index finger over Mickey’s spent cock.

Mickey blushed, stood, and helped Ian into his chair, then wheeled him into the bathroom with him. 

Ian eyed Mickey up as he prepared to enter the shower, thinking to himself that he must be the luckiest psycho on the planet to somehow have this gorgeous, ride-or-die guy still in his life, and ready to marry him no less, after all he’d put him through.

Little did he know that Mickey felt the same about him, the wheelchair, the mangled leg, and the scar on Ian’s nose all serving as constant reminders of everything the cartel had done to Ian, and why.

“So...what did you wanna talk about?” Ian questioned Mickey, once the distraction of Mickey’s naked form was hidden from his view by the shower curtain. He was really working hard, fighting the powerful urge to finesse his way into the shower---and into Mickey.

“...few things…” Mickey began with a reluctant sigh.

“Yeah?” Ian responded, wishing Mickey would just get on with it so he could leave the room, the mere timber in Mickey’s voice managing to do a real number on him.

“Yeah...just think we gotta bring up a few important issues at this thing today,” Mickey continued vaguely.

“Like?!” Ian asked, getting a little frustrated, in spite of himself.

There was a long pause as Mickey carefully considered how to best put it, before finally deciding to just blurt it out, “Like your health...mental and physical...They gonna take care a that shit when they move us...and give us new names and shit? Cuz that’s fuckin’ important! Your leg...ya need therapy...and your….ya know how ya get depressed...and I just…”

Mickey couldn’t go on. He had let his emotions get the best of him, but didn’t want Ian to know, so he started coughing, in an attempt to mask the thickness in his voice. Ian, immediately recognizing this for what it was, wheeled himself over to the shower, pulling the curtain back and staring in at Mickey, his shiny, black, water-soaked hair contrasting dramatically with his pale skin and ice blue eyes. The profound look of sadness and worry in those magnificently expressive eyes hurt Ian’s heart so much that he couldn’t even say what he’d planned.

Ian swallowed hard, gathering himself as best he could, then re-focusing his attention on the man he loved more than anything in the world, his lower lip quivering as he spoke, “Mick, I’ll never hurt you again...Gonna take care of my shit, okay? We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

And with that, he stood, bearing most of his weight on the good leg and bracing himself against the wall, then fumbling his way into the shower, boxers and all, and latching onto Mickey, pulling him close, joining in his sorrow, and allowing Mickey to let go. 

They held each other as they cried, each promising the other to weather whatever storms were to come---together---and to never give up on each other. Ian reiterated his resolve to build a new new life with Mickey, to leave his old one behind, and Mickey swore he would trust Ian when it came to managing his health. He was, after all, as Ian reminded him, a medical professional. He agreed to ask all of the pertinent questions at the meeting, and to get real answers. 

_______________________

“And so what will we do without his testimony?” Agent Baldin asked as he held his phone to his ear, after which there was a lull on Baldin’s end. Everyone in the room looked on in bated anticipation, some freezing mid-sip of coffee or bite of pastry, no one uttering a single word. Teresa had seated herself next to Ian, who immediately reached for her hand, upon hearing Baldin’s question. Petrov had taken a seat on Teresa’s opposite side, and had begun rubbing her back softly as her eyes filled with tears. 

“Yes, I understand...yes, of course...Anything else?” Baldin continued, Petrov squirming in his seat uncomfortably. Again, there was an extended period of silence, followed by Baldin’s closing remarks, “Thank you, and I won’t. I need to begin the training now,” he muttered, looking up at the awkwardly silent group of people waiting before him. 

“Good Morning, everyone,” he began, as if they all hadn’t just overheard his side of a very disturbing conversation. Clearly, they expected to be briefed. An uneasy feeling settled over the room as he continued with his standard spiel, outlining the rules and regulations of the program, then passing out manilla folders to each person at the table. 

The group began leafing through their individual documentation, quickly coming to the realization that they were all being ultimately relocated to the same general region of Colorado, Ian and Mickey both being sent to a small town called Breckenridge. Also included in Ian’s folder was a birth certificate, National Registry of EMTs License and a copy of the marriage license Mickey had shown him. Conspicuously missing from all documents was his last name, though all first names, whether birth-name or nickname, were retained and included for all witnesses. Upon closer examination, Ian found that the marriage license was issued by the Washington D.C. Office of Marriage Licensing. 

“Mickey...we’re getting married...here…” he said flatly, earning a quick shoulder shrug from his fiance.

“Don’t matter...long as we’re together,” Mickey responded with a soft smile. 

“You’re right,” Ian returned, realizing, as he looked into Mickey’s loving eyes, that he was absolutely right. 

Beldin went on to explain some of the less known specifics of the program, such as financial assistance, medical insurance and eligibility for treatment of pre-existing conditions. Mickey glanced over at Ian, watching as Ian took notes on the inside of his folder, making brief eye contact, then nodding appreciatively. 

The morning passed slowly, the unspoken topic on everyone’s mind being that of T’s status. There wasn’t a person in the room who didn’t believe that, in all likelihood, he was dead, or at least brain-dead. And yet, no one dared to ask Beldin about it, nor did they discuss the subject amongst themselves. They all felt alone in their knowledge, their assumptions, their questions, and no one wanted to be the one to open that door---to be the one responsible for shattering Teresa’s world.

When their lunch finally arrived, Beldin announced that there would be a 30 minute break, during which individual questions could be addressed. Petrov was first in line. He and Baldin went way back, to the old days in Southside Chicago when they both were up to their eyeballs in messy ‘jobs’ for the Russian mob. Just as Petrov had maintained his connection with mobsters like Sonny and Yuri, so also had he retained friendships with others who, like himself, had left the organization for bigger and better, or at least less dangerous, opportunities. 

Petrov and Baldin whispered back and forth, as Sonny and Yuri looked on apprehensively. They, too, remembered Baldin, although they hadn’t seen or spoken with him in years, for obvious reasons. From what they knew, he was a good guy, loyal and reliable. 

But a lot can change, especially when you’ve managed to escape a life of organized crime and land a highly esteemed government position, one that requires a top-secret clearance. Who knows what kind of promises he had to make, what kind of intel a man of his background might have had to share, in order to secure such employment? 

As Yuri and Sonny began their own quiet conversation, the tension in the room grew exponentially, Ian eventually finding it impossible to remain in his seat, despite his inability to walk. He had spent the morning seated between Teresa and Mickey, Teresa bouncing back and forth between a trance-like state and one of absolute despair. 

Unable to offer her any comfort whatsoever, despite his marked efforts, Ian turned to Mickey, appearing to be on the verge of panic. “I need some air! I gotta get outta here! I need to breathe!” he wailed, gripping Mickey by the shirt, his face flushed, his eyes wild.

Mickey looked over helplessly at Beldin and Petrov, who had stopped talking after Ian’s outburst. “Is there somewhere I can take him? Get him some air?” Mickey asked timidly, feeling completely out of his element and spooked by Ian’s current condition at the same time.

“I’m afraid none of us can go outside right now, but…” Beldin began his pat answer.

“Can I at least take him for a walk inside then?” Mickey pleaded in desperation, getting Ian’s upper arm in a deathgrip, fearing that he might try to walk, or even run, on his own. 

Beldin directed them to a guarded door, signaling security to escort them. “And what about his meds?!” Mickey snarled as he turned back to glare at Beldin, “My fiance needs his fuckin’ medicine! NOW!”


	47. Bombshells

“Mick! I...I don’t think I can do this!” Ian howled in frustration, his face still bright red, beads of sweat accumulating rapidly across his forehead and beginning to drip from his brow.

“Oh, here we go! Not this shit again! Ian! We just fuckin’ discussed this!” Mickey hollered back in anger.

“Yeah...well, that was before Agent Asshole spent all morning ignoring Teresa! Totally blew her off! Like she was nobody! Like T, who’s the only fucking reason they even have a case, doesn’t mean shit! What the fuck!?” Ian whined, “It’s like nothing matters to these fucks, but the goddamn case! Who knows if they’re gonna honor any of this shit after they get what they want from us?!” 

Mickey adjusted his grip on Ian’s wheelchair and took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself before responding to his lover’s emotional rant, “Ian...we don’t do this, we’re fucked! You’ll go back ta prison, and the fuckin’ cartel, or those Aryan pieces a’ shit’ll off us both, for sure! This deal’s our only shot!” 

“Mickey! Fuck that! We have a right to counsel! I wanna talk to Dr. Lange’s attorney friend! I’m gonna demand representation!” Ian wailed.

“Listen…” Mickey began, stopping in the middle of the hallway to crouch before Ian in his chair, his right hand coming to rest on the knee of Ian’s good leg, “I don’t think we oughta lawyer up. They’ll think we don’t trust ‘em...Might take the offer off the table,” Mickey reasoned in a low tone of voice, with an uncharacteristic patience that he reserved for only Ian.

Mickey’s even-tempered response seemed to soothe Ian’s raging soul, their eyes locked in a fragile stalemate, both men’s resolve gradually weakening as they stared silently into the most loving, beautiful set of eyes they had ever known, feeling trapped in their horrific situation, but fortunate, at the same time, to have one another through it all.

“I wanna talk ta Sonny about it first,” Mickey finally added, all but giving in, much to Ian’s contentment.

Ian gave Mickey a sexy smile, stretching his arms out to him, though both knew Mickey would have to go to Ian, since he couldn’t reach him from the wheelchair. Mickey acquiesced, once again, to Ian’s will, standing, then kneeling with one leg on the chair, between Ian’s thighs, so Ian could hold Mickey’s face in his hands.

“Mick...I know you think I’m nuts...I just wanna protect our future. I love you so fucking much,” Ian said in a tearful whisper, after which he pulled Mickey’s beaten face to his lips, spreading tender kisses over every inch of it, giving gentle affection to the places he’d hurt the night before. 

“I’m sorry…” he breathed remorsefully, Mickey shutting his eyes, if only for a brief second, savoring the momentary peace Ian’s loving gesture had provided. 

Then, with his signature air of put-on, cocky confidence, Mickey stood, quickly moving behind the wheelchair again, roughly touseling Ian’s hair, then leaning over to peck him on the crown of his head with his swollen lips, as he responded gruffly, “Jesus fuck, Ian! I know that! Now, can we please get our asses back in there so we can actually ask some fuckin’ questions?!”

Ian nodded in silent agreement, Mickey’s salty attitude having a familiarly arousing effect on him. “Damn, Mick,” Ian murmured, adjusting himself, “So hot!”

Mickey huffed a half-chuckle as he guided Ian’s chair back to the conference room. They were approached immediately by Sonny as they entered, Ian catching sight of Teresa sitting alone at the table and instinctively reaching for his wheels. Mickey let him go, realizing Ian needed to be there for her and preferring to talk to Sonny alone anyway.

“Listen...I wanted to…” Mickey began, Sonny not allowing him to finish.

“No...YOU listen!” Sonny said with a low, agitated, Milkovich growl that instantaneously put Mickey on notice that he meant business, “Don’t fuck this up!! Baldin’s got us all taken care of...better than we coulda ever hoped! I know your trophy bride over there has some concerns, but I’m tellin’ ya, now ain’t the time ta voice ‘em. Trust me!”

“Trophy bride?!” Mickey bristled, shooting Sonny an icy glare.

“Come on, Mick...ya know what I meant. Sexy as fuck...smart, too...but he just don’t get the big picture, man. I see it in the way he eyes people up, people he should be trustin’ and givin’ respect to, ya know?” Sonny backpedaled, trying to explain himself.

“Look, you don’t fuckin’ get it! Ian’s bipolar...and he ain’t had no meds since all this crazy shit went down! Yeah, he’s fuckin’ paranoid, he flips out…” Mickey began, trying to make Sonny understand. 

Sonny pointed to Mickey’s eye, then his lip. “I can see that,” he spoke softly with a tinge of pity in his voice.

“Naw, naw...it ain’t like that,” Mickey shook his head in denial, the increasingly awkward conversation flustering him more than he was accustomed.

“Whatever…” Sonny mumbled doubtingly, before continuing, “None a this shit is what ya think, Mick. Just roll with it, arright?” Sonny implored him, his eyes darting over at Yuri, who was engaged in a surprisingly jovial conversation with Ian.

Petrov looked on tentatively, hoping to take advantage of even the smallest opportunity to talk with Teresa alone. Once he saw that Ian’s attention had turned to Yuri, and that Baldin had left the room, replaced by a random, armed-security guard, he made his move, seating himself next to Teresa and taking her hand in his.

Teresa looked over at Petrov in surprise, yet kept her hand where it was, allowing him to grip it more tightly. She could sense a caring warmth in his touch, but rejected any stronger feeling on her end, chalking it up to her current situation. 

“It wasn’t him,” Petrov whispered softly, leaning in close to Teresa’s ear. 

“Wh...What?” Teresa stammered in shocked surprise.

“Baldin...He wasn’t talking about T,” Petrov clarified, squeezing her hand for emphasis.

Teresa began to weep, turning to bury her tear-stained face into Petrov’s shoulder. 

“Thanks,” she mewled as he held her to him, Ian staring over at them contemptuously as he quickly closed the distance between them and himself.

Mickey, having also been clued in on what seemed, for the time being, to be good news, but also recognizing that Ian obviously hadn’t been, ran straight for him, hoping to intercede before Ian had a chance to say or do anything crazy.

Before Mickey could even get to Ian, Baldin returned, approaching Mickey and gesturing for Ian to join them at the back corner of the table. Teresa pulled back from Petrov, smiling as Ian rolled by, her relief registering with him instantly. 

“So T’s alive?” Ian blurted out, as he wheeled himself up to the table next to Mickey. 

Baldin shot a surprised look over at Ian, then at Petrov, who had quickly scrambled away from Teresa upon Baldin’s return, hoping to keep up the appearance of having honored Baldin's request for confidentiality, but it was no use. 

“Close the door,” Baldin called sternly to the young security guard manning it, “and make yourself scarce!” The man immediately stepped out, pulling the door shut quietly behind himself.

“Everyone take a seat,” Baldin commanded, addressing the small group of witnesses who now stared at him expectantly.

As everyone took their seats, he added, “Not you, Petrov. Get your ass up here,” gesturing for him to join him at the head of the table. 

“Arright,” Baldin continued, momentarily slipping into his old Southside dialect, “Gonna give it to ya straight...These people sittin’ with ya here today...they’re the only ones you’re ever gonna see that know who ya really are, so...” he paused, clearing his throat as he glanced over at a nervous Petrov, reading the panic on his face.

“So apparently Petrov here trusts you all...and I would hope you trust each other. I’ll tell you now that, if you don’t, this isn’t going to end well. Your very survival depends on two things. One - Your cooperation in the case or cases for which you’ve agreed to testify, and Two - The maintenance of your anonymity, leading up to and following the trials. This is where the trust comes in,” he paused again, looking over at Petrov, wondering if he might be an asset in broaching these tough subjects with the group.

Petrov let his eyes wander over to Teresa’s face, which had fallen the second Baldin made the comment about her present company being the only people who would ever know who she really was. She took this to mean that T, even if he were to recover, if he was even truly alive at this point, would not be a part of her new life. Petrov tried to smile as she returned his gaze, looking instead like he might vomit.

“So, I’m going to let Petrov share everything I know, at this point, since I trusted him with that knowledge, and, as I said before, apparently, he trusts you…” And with that, Baldin stepped away from the table, holding his hands up in surrender as he ceded the floor to his blabbermouth of a former running partner.

“Really?” Petrov groaned, shuffling from foot to foot anxiously as he began to speak.

“Okay...We are all gonna be testifying here in D.C., which...which means we may be here for a while...”

There was an awkward silence as the reality of this statement sunk into everyone’s minds, Ian letting out a deep, mournful sigh. 

“And the trial is likely to drag on for some time, given the complexity of it. It’s now a capital case…” he paused, scanning the room to see if everyone understood what that meant.

“Capital, as in ‘murder’?” Sonny questioned, verbalizing what Ian had been wondering himself.

“Yeah…” Petrov began, “As you well know, Burman and his Aryan associates are on the hook for the murders of some federal agents." He paused, rolling his eyes and doing his best not to smile, before continuing, "He is also being charged with the killing and dismemberment of Ellis Ball, whose body has been recovered in pieces from Lake Michigan.”

Teresa gasped, the jaws of the rest dropping in shocked surprise, most of them keeping any other sentiments to themselves, though Mickey caught a hint of a smirk forming at the corners of Ian’s mouth. He squeezed Ian’s hand, hoping to temper any further response.

Petrov again glanced from person to person, gauging their reactions, then continued, “You’re bound to see a lot of familiar faces in the courtroom, so security will be maxed out for the duration of the trial, and they’ll be getting you to and from the courthouse in some pretty creative ways, in order to insure your safety. Sometimes you’ll be taking the long way around, so no one will be able to trace your point of origin. It’s possible that you might even be flown out of D.C. and back in, in some cases.”

Ian raised a hopeful eyebrow in Mickey’s direction, wishing like hell they could get their asses the fuck out of this hellhole they were trapped in. Mickey looked away, refusing to get his hopes up.

“Agent Baldin has some specifics to share with some of you individually, after which I am told there will be a doctor coming to tend to anyone who has medical needs, then a barber, and finally, Agent Sams, who will be officiating a wedding or two,” Petrov finished, pausing to allow everyone to gawk at Sonny and Yuri, who were both turning a bright pink, before happily passing the proverbial baton to Baldin.

“Before we break up for a bit here, are there any questions for the good of the group?” Baldin asked warily.

“Yeah!” Ian piped up with an attitude, “What the fuck happened to T? Are you gonna tell us, or just keep us wondering, worrying, ya know, feeling like shit?” 

Ian then looked over at Teresa, who’s eyes instantly began to water. Petrov went to her right away, kneeling beside her and grasping her hand.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any news on him at present, other than to say that I’ve received no notification of his death,” Baldin responded honestly.

“So does that mean he’s not dead?” Ian continued with his brazen line of questioning.

“I’m typically apprised of these matters in a timely manner, so I’m going to say, unofficially, yes, but I can’t guarantee anything, and I know nothing of his condition,” Baldin clarified.

Teresa looked down at her hand, enveloped in Petrov’s, her mind hearkening back to a time when T had held her hand the same way. She wondered if she would ever feel that again. She frowned as tears rolled down her cheeks, faster than she or Petrov could wipe them away.

“This is why we are instructed not to address such matters,” Baldin responded, exhaling heavily, adding, “Now, if there aren’t any other questions, I’d like to begin by seeing Ian.

“You ain’t seein’ him without me!” Mickey objected, walking up behind Ian’s chair as he approached the small table where Baldin now sat. 

“That’s fine. As long as Ian doesn’t object to your presence during a discussion of an important legal matter,” Baldin said in an official tone. 

“Wh...Why the fuck wouldn’t it be fine? And what the fuck legal matter?!” Mickey yelled, clearly aggravated.

“It’s okay, Mick,” Ian interjected, sounded the calmest he had all day, “Of course he can be here. We’re about to commit to spending the rest of our lives together. What secrets could I possibly wanna keep from him?” 

“Alright then...We’re all doing our best here to rectify this situation, and seeing the doctor today is the first step, but…” Baldin paused, focusing his gaze on Ian, who remained cool and collected for the moment, “Ian, you do realize that, at present, you are technically still serving a sentence? You are, in essence, still a federal inmate?”

Ian nodded silently. He hadn’t felt like an inmate at all, ever since Dr. Lange had removed his restraints at Johns Hopkins. A patient, yes, but not an inmate. He’d all but forgotten that he was still incarcerated, according to the letter of the law. 

“So..so what the fuck does this mean?!” Mickey demanded, “We still gettin’ married?”

“Yes, sir. Of that much I am certain. And it will be today. It’s the plan for him afterward that's up in the air. First thing Monday morning, the U.S. Attorney’s Office will likely demand that he be remanded to the nearest federal prison’s protective custody unit immediately. It’s our job here to file the necessary motions for special consideration, if there are any viable grounds,” Baldin explained.

“And what if there ain’t? Then what?” Mickey barked.

“Then we’ll fight for the best placement possible,” Baldin replied, avoiding eye contact. He hated giving that answer almost as much as Mickey hated hearing it.

“Wait...Wh...Placement!? What The Fuck?!” Mickey screamed, instinctively pulling Ian’s wheelchair away from the table, as if they could actually make a run for it. “Fuck that!! He stays with me, or I ain’t talkin’! You got that?! He’s with me or I ain’t sayin’ shit! Not a single, fuckin’ word!!”

And with that, the rest of the room fell silent.


	48. Legally Bound

“I wanna talk to Gayle! Gayle Jatone...Esquire!” Ian yelled, his voice carrying across the unusually quiet room. 

Sonny shot Mickey a sidelong look, shaking his head in disapproval, nonverbally urging Mickey to get control of himself and his mate. 

“We need to talk ta someone...for sure!” Mickey hollered insistently, in spite of Sonny’s silent warning. “If ya expect me ta testify, someone’s gotta figure out how ta keep Ian the fuck outta prison! He’s not goin’ through that shit again! You hear me?!” Mickey cried out in desperation.

Mickey’s mind was now fixated on the abuse that had been piled on Ian at Stateville--- sexually, physically, mentally---all the ways that shithole had fucked with him. He knew the two trials he was set to testify in would bring some sense of justice, or payback, at least, since Burman would surely be locked away for life, and the cartel members who had busted Ian up would definitely see some kind of consequences, in addition to the beat-down they had already gotten from the Russians, according to Petrov. Mickey secretly hoped Burman would be housed with a bunch of Aryan-hating, head- and butt-loving prisoners who would give him a taste of his own medicine---daily. 

The fact remained, however, that no amount of retribution was worth putting Ian in harm’s way again, and, to Mickey, hearing that Ian would be housed in a ‘protective unit’ gave him absolutely no comfort, after the experiences he’d had in protective custody at Stateville. 

T and the impeccable timing of a shakedown had literally been all that stood between Mickey and the violent rape Burman had begun to perpetrate, and had intended on inflicting fully upon him. He shuddered as he relived the experience in his mind, Ian wrapping a knowing, sympathetic arm around him in response. Ian could feel Mickey’s pain, his worry, his love, as they sat together, shoulder to shoulder, in their demand for representation.

“Gentlemen, you have lawyers. Our legal team…” Baldin began in a hushed tone, hoping to de-escalate them both, while also removing their audience. In Baldin’s mind, this was an issue that concerned only Mickey and Ian, so there was no need for them to broadcast everything across the entire room. 

Before he could finish his sentence, Mickey exploded, “Fuck you and your legal team! We need someone who’s gonna keep Ian outta prison! I ain’t workin’ with ya for nothin’ less!”

“Sir,” Baldin began quietly, again using a title of respect, in hopes of getting Mickey to listen to him, “Both of you have already met with legal representatives, and you’ve signed agreements. This is a done deal! If you don’t testify, he goes back to serve his full sentence at Stateville,” Baldin snapped, gesturing in Ian’s direction. 

“And you, since you are a free man, thanks to the Compassionate Release our legal team afforded you, will be returned to Chicago. I must warn you, however, that you may be indicted for Breach of Contract, and most definitely will be tried for your other crimes, including your escape from Cook County Correctional.

“No fuckin’ way! This ain’t happenin’! Dr. Lange comin’ here today?!” he erupted, abruptly leaping up from his chair and kicking it over on his way toward Baldin, Sonny rushing at Mickey before he could put his hands on Baldin.

“Mr. Milkovich,” Baldin continued, as if Mickey hadn’t just asked a question and threatened him physically, Sonny standing between the two, “And you WILL retain that name, if you renege, by the way...Probably not the best survival strategy for your return to Southside Chicago, or to prison, for that matter. And then there are the minor details...You killed two people in cold blood at that warehouse! Or did you think we didn’t notice?”

“Fuck you! That was self-defense!!” Mickey bellowed, the veins in his neck protruding, his face bright red.

“Settle the fuck down, Mick,” Sonny muttered under his breath, turning toward Mickey to subdue him, as Mickey lunged at Baldin, Ian staring, wide-eyed, as he took in the terrifying scene. The last thing he wanted was for Mickey to jeopardize his own freedom and safety for his.

“Security!” Baldin demanded, just as the door swung open, the young guard leading Dr. Lange in to bear witness to the tail end of Mickey’s tantrum and Sonny’s resultant rough handling of him.

“Stop!” she screamed, the whole group turning their attention toward her in an instant. 

“Glad you’re here, Doc. I can explain all this...Get the fuck off me!!” Mickey growled in overheated frustration as he struggled to free himself of Sonny’s hold on him.

“I would like some time alone with my patient,” Dr. Lange said authoritatively, “If you’d kindly unhand him and provide us with a suitable place to meet...in private,” she reiterated.

“Of course,” Baldin replied meekly, obviously taken aback by the series of events that had just unfolded. He approached the security guard, giving instructions, after which the guard made preparations to leave the room with them.

“This one, too,” Dr. Lange added, stepping behind Ian’s wheelchair and proceeding to push him out with them. 

Sonny backed away, rejoining Yuri, Petrov and Teresa at the larger table, all of whom sat quietly, completely stunned, but hoping for a miracle at the same time. Baldin’s seeming about-face wasn’t lost on anyone, and they all felt just a little bit less inclined to believe all they’d been told in the morning meeting, with regard to their future safety. 

“Come on, Sonny...Yuri...How long have we known him? He’s good for it,” Petrov argued, trying to convince his former associates, and himself, that Baldin could still be trusted. “Mickey’s outburst just fucked with him is all,” he continued.

“That redhead is the fly in the ointment,” Sonny groaned, “And Mickey can’t fuckin’ breathe without his whiny ass! I’ve never known Mickey to give two fucks about anyone, if it meant bullshit for him or the family. This dude’s got him by the balls though…” 

Yuri glanced over at him, smirking slightly, looking as if he might have something to say. But before Yuri could get a word in, Sonny quickly added, “And I get it...Don’t get me wrong…Just wish he’d chill the fuck out until we see how it’s all gonna play. Startin’ shit right now ain’t the answer, as I see it.”

“That’s really easy for you to say, since you’re sitting next to YOUR soon-to-be husband, without any threat of separation, secure in the belief that you’ll be there to love and keep each other safe,” Teresa countered sharply, in defense of Mickey, and Ian, whom she considered to be her closest friend, besides T, after all they’d been through together. 

She also understood Ian’s illness, and didn’t take kindly to Sonny’s reference to him as being ‘whiny’, regardless of how accurate that assessment may have been at the moment. 

The simmering argument died down as Baldin approached the group, “Look, guys...Teresa...” he began, “No one wants things to go smoothly and according to plan more than I do, and this issue with Gallagher shouldn’t be anything more than a hiccup, an unavoidable one, however, given the sudden change of circumstances.” Teresa rolled her eyes at Petrov, who then turned to Baldin with a questioning look. 

Baldin continued, attempting to clarify, ““The U.S. Attorney’s Office no longer feels that it can afford adequate protection at Johns Hopkins, after this most recent incident, and frankly, Ian needs to be proving himself mentally competent, which will be a fuck of a lot easier if he’s not in the hospital receiving treatment for his mental infirmities. And if he’s not under medical care, he, as an inmate currently serving a sentence, should, in the eyes of the law, be incarcerated! A sentence is not typically commuted until after an inmate witness gives his testimony.” 

As Baldin paused to take a breath, Petrov interjected, “C’mon! I’ve seen your guys make shit like this go away before!”

“Yes, but it takes a little time. And that’s all I’m asking for. He might be somewhere for a few days…” Baldin trailed off as Agent Sams arrived with a rolling wardrobe, filled with dresses, suit coats, pants and tuxes in various sizes, a man carrying what looked like a traveling hair-stylist’s kit under his arm trailing behind him. 

“So, where are our grooms?” the stylist spoke up, putting a sudden end to Baldin’s rant.

Yuri raised his hand high, his smile widening as he looked over at Sonny adoringly. Never in his life did he imagine this would actually happen, that Sonny would acknowledge their relationship in such a formal way. Yuri understood that their new lives and identities were largely responsible for enabling Sonny to feel free to take this monumental step, and for this, he was grateful. 

Although the members of their organization who worked closest with them had come to accept them as life partners over the years, Sonny’s family remained a completely different story. The Milkoviches, though they never admitted it publically, were ashamed of Sonny’s sexual preference, and didn’t miss many opportunities to share their disapproval at family functions. 

Sonny usually didn’t dare take Yuri with him to family gatherings, eventually opting not to attend them at all, himself. And despite his fierce loyalty, he steered clear entirely of any public events that might involve his family. He’d witnessed, first hand, what had happened to Mickey when he came out publicly, and decided to keep the depth of his relationship with Yuri largely between the two of them---until now.

Both Yuri and Sonny had gotten haircuts and fresh shaves, along with tuxes, and even rings, by the time Dr. Lange returned with Mickey, Ian and their security guard escort. Both men were visibly calmer, Mickey toting a prescription bag and voicing his approval of the other couple’s appearance, “Lookin’ good, guys! Our turn now!” he exclaimed, craning his neck to admire Ian as he rolled by, heading for the stylist, who had motioned for him. 

While Ian was busy having his hair cut, revealing his beautiful ginger hair in all its glory, Agent Sams set about helping Mickey find a tux that could be quickly altered to fit him, though Mickey, for his part, was quite distracted by Ian’s emerging natural beauty. There wasn’t a person in the room who couldn’t plainly see how in love Mickey was with Ian. It was written all over his positively radiant face. Despite the unsettling circumstances surrounding it, this was the happiest day of Mickey’s whole fucking life, and it showed.

Amid all of the primping and preparation, which included Teresa selecting a dress, since Ian had asked that she be his maid-of-honor, Dr. Lange made her way to the back table, summoning Baldin sharply.

“Agent Baldin, we need to have a little talk. There are conditions that must be met, in order for my patients---your witnesses---to maintain their mental competency to testify. These conditions are medically necessary and cannot be compromised. Do you understand what that means?” she quipped with a condescending air.

“Yes,” he answered quietly, taking a seat across from her at the table, “I understand.”


	49. Wedding Belles

Baldin had slipped away quietly, sometime after Dr. Lange had spoken with him, and before the start of the wedding ceremony. No one even seemed to notice until Agent Sams made his apologies for his absence, just before beginning his official wedding spiel. 

Both couples were to be married at the same time, using standard vows, though Ian, Mickey and Yuri had all expressed interest in adding a few sentiments of their own. Sonny, generally a man of few words, ended up being the voice of reason when the others’ requests to personalize their vows were denied. 

“Don’t matter,” he shrugged, looking into Yuri’s eyes tenderly, as he pulled him in for a quick, unprecedented, in-front-of-others kiss, presumably to practice for the big one, then breathed huskily into his ear, “You can tell me later.”

“And so can you two,” he nodded in Mickey and Ian’s direction, “Save the special vows for when you’re alone. Sooner we’re done here, sooner we get to celebrate!” he said with a grin, perfectly arching his eyebrows as only a Milkovich could, then whispering, “Alone,” seductively to Yuri.

Ian and Mickey both smiled in agreement with Sonny, turning to take one last, pre-marital look at one another, both sets of dreamy eyes falling shut as their lips touched softly.

As Agent Sams cleared his throat, the four men squared off before him in a straight row, Ian leaning on Mickey, Teresa offering additional support on Ian’s other side. Dr. Lange, Petrov, the hair-stylist and the security guard looked on from behind them all. “Dearly beloved…” Sams began, “blah, blah, blah…”

Mickey was so excited, he couldn’t focus on a word the guy was saying, and he thought he might just piss himself when it actually came time for him to say, “I do.” He knew every word by heart anyway, and had spoken most of them to Ian before, but this time around, it was all real, the day he’d dreamt of for longer than he’d ever admit to anyone, his chance to actually promise the rest of his life to the man he loved more than life itself. 

Ian was absolutely stunning in his black tux, his closely-cropped, fiery, red hair and lightly freckled, porcelain skin setting off his gorgeous green eyes to perfection, all of which had Mickey plotting his course for their own private after-party and reveling in the fantasy that was about to become a reality---his precious Ian, to have and to hold for the rest of their time together on earth.

Ian’s eyes moved over Mickey’s freshly shaven, positively beaming face, the damage he’d inflicted with his angry fists seeming to all but melt away as Mickey’s adorably infectious smile broadened. He truly was quite the sight to behold, dressed in an equally dapper, black tux and looking sexy as fuck, his piercing blue eyes stoking Ian’s desire as they met his own, the two embroiled in a wordless dialogue, the topic of which was obvious to all who looked on.

“Mickey,” Sams’ voice broke through, disrupting their blissful, spiritual communion, “Do you take Ian to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold…” 

Mickey struggled to hold back. He wanted to blurt it out. ‘I do! I do!’ So when the time finally came, Agent Sams pausing for his response, Mickey didn’t miss a beat. “I do,” he said hoarsely, the excitement of it all leaving his throat dry and his eyes moist, their breathtaking blue sparkling through his tears of joy and disbelief.

“And Ian,” Sams began, “Do you take Mickey to be your…” Ian said each word in his head as Sams spoke it, marveling at the incredibly surreal circumstance he found himself in. 

There was nothing about this entire scene that even remotely resembled the kind of wedding he had envisioned having, except for the flawlessly gift-wrapped, unusually angelic-looking badass standing before him, sincerely pledging his love and undying devotion. And yet, somehow it was perfect. 

His heart beat faster with every word Sams spoke, each echoing in his mind as he considered its meaning, along with the miraculous promises he had just received and was about to make to this ridiculously hot, incredibly loving, tough, yet equally vulnerable human being he was in the process of taking to be his husband. “HUSBAND!” he said to himself as Sams said it aloud.

As Sams’ lengthy question, once again, came to an end, Ian shouted, “Yes! I do!”

“May we have the rings, please?” Sams continued, Sonny handing Mickey and Ian each the shiny gold band he would use to pledge his forever love to the other.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” Mickey repeated after Sams, as he slid it over Ian’s long, freckled finger.

Ian smiled, his face glowing as he felt Mickey’s quaking hand grip his, after which he took that same trembling hand into his own, placing a matching band on Mickey’s ring finger as he repeated, “With this ring, I thee wed.”

And before Agent Sams could give the customary permission, since he had planned on finishing vows for both couples, prior to their sealing them with a kiss, Ian dove at Mickey, bearing the majority of his weight on one foot, yet somehow still managing some grace in his approach, catching Mickey by surprise, cupping his beautiful face in his hands and kissing him with such passion, there wasn’t a person in the room who could tear their eyes away.

Mickey’s lips parted, welcoming Ian’s delving tongue, savoring its every movement, his own co-mingling, joining in its affectionate dance, both men overcome with emotion, the world around them ceasing to exist as they shared this magical moment.

“You may kiss the groom,” Sams chimed in awkwardly as the searing kiss persisted, Mickey instinctively gripping Ian firmly at the waist to steady him. 

Finally, Agent Sams cleared his throat, reclaiming the couple’s attention for long enough to pronounce them husbands, amid cheers and genuine well wishes, the newlyweds visibly smitten and quite obviously still in shock over the reality of this milestone at long last coming to fruition. 

The two gradually regained some semblance of composure, appearing to turn their attention to the beautiful couple next to them, who had so patiently waited their turn. Sonny and Yuri’s nuptials were, nonetheless, but a blur to Ian and Mickey, whose stomachs were abuzz with butterflies, their hearts bursting with joy, their bodies alit with desire, their souls rejoicing in the promise of a bright future---together. 

As Sonny and Yuri sealed their vows with a sweet, albeit less grandiose display of devotion, Sams dubbed both unions official, announcing, “Ladies and Gentleman, presenting Mr. Ian and Mickey Belle and Mr. Sonny and Yuri Thomson.” 

The proclamation, while absent the familiar ring of anyone’s birth surname, was well received, all attendees applauding, whistling, or both. And then, just as Agent Sams was prepared to dismiss everyone to their respective rooms for the evening, Baldin burst through the door. 

“Oh, good! Glad you’re all still here. I...I know the timing is less than ideal, but I have important news,” he panted, working to catch his breath after what must have been a brisk jog from the parking lot. 

Mickey sighed heavily in disgust, quickly realizing that his plan to toss Ian over his shoulder, carry him into their room, throw him onto the bed and make love to him in every way possible, had been put on hold. Knowing Ian had held off that morning made Mickey want him all the more, a feeling he knew damn well was mutual. 

He couldn’t wait to give his new husband everything he had to give, to please him beyond his earthly limits, to render him incapable of coherent speech, to make him forget his own name, to fuck him into oblivion. God! How he loved this man! What the fuck did this asshole, Baldin, have to say that was important enough to cockblock him on his fucking wedding night?

“Everybody...Please take a seat,” Baldin continued, gesturing for everyone to sit at the large table where they’d spent most of their day, then excusing the stylist and asking the security guard to step outside the door.

Mickey helped Ian into his wheelchair and pushed him over to the table, sitting down in the chair next to him and taking his hand.

“There has been a bit of an unexpected change...a bump in the road, if you will, with regard to the Aryan Brotherhood case,” Baldin began, Petrov, in particular, looking at him quizzically. 

“And it appears that the U.S. Attorney’s Office plans to expedite the case against the cartel. It is important to them that these two trials not overlap, given the need for crucial testimony in both cases from some of the same witnesses,” he explained, looking at Petrov and Teresa, who were sitting together, then over at Ian, Mickey and Dr. Lange. 

“And we’re just finding this out now? On a Sunday night?” Petrov asked dubiously. 

“Hey!” Baldin yelled, clearly bugged by Petrov’s tone, as well as his insinuation that he was being anything other than honest and forthcoming.

“I probably wouldn’t have known until tomorrow, had I not been inquiring as to the possibility of Ian avoiding a return to a federal prison!” Baldin continued defensively.

Dr. Lange stood up from the table, raising an angry eyebrow, poised to pounce on Baldin if he proffered anything short of Ian remaining in Mickey’s company for the duration of this convoluted legal process.

“Relax, Deb,” Baldin said softly, sensing Dr. Lange’s ire and attempting to avoid a heated argument over a largely uncertain, at present, set of circumstances. They had known one another for years, both professionally and personally, and he was quite accustomed to her demanding nature and refusal to accept anything less than what she asked for, when it came to her patients. 

“I’ll relax when you tell me what the fuck is going on!” she snapped, glaring at Baldin venomously.

“I’m not sure of the particulars, but I’ve arranged a room for you here, at least for tonight, or until I know more,” Baldin spoke reassuringly in as calm a voice as he could manage, given Dr. Lange’s obvious frustration and his lack of detailed intel.

“Great,” she hissed sarcastically, holding back the full-on tongue-lashing she was dying to unleash on Baldin. How dare he come to them with such sketchy information? Surely he understood Ian’s fragile mental state and what could happen if he got too worked up.

“Deb, I’m sorry I don’t know more...I’ll show you to your room,” he whispered apologetically. “The rest of you can retire to your rooms for the night.”

“Finally!” Mickey muttered under his breath, pulling Ian’s wheelchair back from the table enthusiastically and racing toward the door before anyone else had made a move in that direction. 

Ian waved to the others, smirking mischievously as he and his new husband made a break for it, barely audible giggles escaping from the pair as they neared the exit.


	50. Forever Yours

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” Agent Baldin yelled, before Mickey could even get Ian’s wheelchair out the door. 

“What?!” Mickey hollered in annoyance, beyond irritated that Baldin was again throwing a block to his wedding night activities with Ian. 

“Just need a few quick pictures. Everyone needs to have wedding photos, right?” Baldin said with a smile, in an attempt to lighten Mickey’s quickly souring mood. In reality, Baldin, himself, was the one who needed a picture, as physical proof of the wedding, and to offer as a household prop, once the couple were relocated to Breckenridge, though that seemed quite far off, under the circumstances.

“C’mon, Mick! I do want some pictures of us---especially you---all dressed up...for me!” Ian beamed, batting his eyes as he gazed at Mickey lovingly. Mickey’s expression softened, Ian’s charms working their magic.

“Arright…” Mickey sighed in resignation, unable to deny his irresistible husband his wish. 

Although Ian sincerely regretted having marred Mickey’s handsome face for the pictures, historically speaking, Mickey had facial contusions more often than not. To Ian, it fit his image of the rough and tumble Southside thug he’d fallen for all those years ago. He wasn’t about to let a black-eye and split lip stop him from having these once-in-a-lifetime photos taken.

All it took was Ian reaching up for his help in getting out of his wheelchair, and Mickey was putty in his hands. Ian must have had Baldin take at least fifty pictures, as he posed with his man, whispering positioning cues and provocative promises huskily into his ear, nonchalantly brushing against Mickey’s goods whenever the situation lent itself.

Ian’s antics had Mickey so aroused that he was fighting to will away, or at least hide, his stubborn erection throughout most of the embarrassing ordeal. 

Finally, Mickey had had enough, and took the opportunity to exact his revenge during a particular shot. Ian, opting to give his aching leg a brief respite, had taken a seat in one of the regular chairs and asked Mickey to crouch behind him, and to rest his chin on his shoulder. As soon as Mickey approached the back of the chair, Ian turned, casually rubbing Mickey’s bulging crotch with his hand, effectively inciting an even more pronounced stretch to the groin area of his pants, which hugged his ample package tightly to begin with.

“That’s it! You’re gonna get it!” Mickey growled as he leaned down to nuzzle Ian’s ear, then tearing aggressively into Ian’s neck with his teeth.

“Owww!” Ian yelped in pain, before stifling his own outburst, pinning his lower lip under his top teeth. 

“Yeah! Get that one!” Mickey chuckled, smiling for the camera as Ian bit down on his own lip, “Good practice for ya anyhow, bitch!”

Ian leered at Mickey expectantly, anxiously awaiting his unpredictable spouse’s next move. “I think we’re good on pictures,” Mickey grunted, promptly lifting Ian from his seat and hoisting him up over his shoulder, before hurriedly heading for the exit.

“Someone better open it...or I’ll fuckin’ kick it down!” he threatened as they neared the door. 

Now Ian’s pulse was racing, his heart pounding with anticipation. Leave it to Mickey to make the most long-awaited night of their lives even more exciting than Ian thought possible. 

“When I get you alone…” Mickey hissed through clenched teeth as he barreled through the doorway, which Teresa had run over to open, and down the hallway toward their room. 

Everyone had been given room keys, along with their folders that morning, and Mickey had left everything in the pouch that hung from the back of Ian’s wheelchair.

“Fuck!” he muttered, upon that realization, hastily setting Ian down and propping him against their locked door, “Don’t fuckin’ move! I’ll be right back!”

Ian’s face, already reddened from the headrush his upside-down shoulder ride to the door had brought on, flushed even more, his head swimming, his own heartbeat thumping in his ears, his whole being aflutter with a playful giddiness that Mickey found absolutely adorable. 

”Hurry!” he called after Mickey as his poorly-positioned manhood expanded uncomfortably inside the snug in-seam of his dress pants.

Mickey was back in a flash, parking the wheelchair, retrieving the key, opening the door, then throwing Ian onto his shoulder again and carrying him over the threshold. Though temporary and impersonal, it was the closest thing to what they could call home, for the time being, and it was a far sight better than a prison cell, or even their room in the infirmary at Stateville. This was theirs---for now---and it was private.

Mickey tossed Ian onto the bed, then brought the chair in from the hallway and locked the door. “You naked yet?” he bellowed gruffly, before allowing his eyes to fall upon Ian’s rapidly disrobing, enticingly fetching form. His creamy white, freckled skin glowed in the dim light, in stark contrast with his bright red hair, his exquisite facial features and long, lush lashes combining to give Ian the breathtaking appearance of a fine porcelain doll. He was almost too beautiful. Mickey shivered as goosebumps rose over his entire body.

“Fuck...” Mickey gasped in reverent admiration, before getting hold of himself and re-assuming his authoritative air. “That’s right! You better take that fuckin’ monkey suit off! Got plans for you!” Mickey ordered, Ian hastening his process in response.

Mickey disappeared into the bathroom momentarily, returning promptly with a tube of lube and a lit, scarlet-red candle, the hot, sweet scent of cinnamon wafting throughout the room as he approached the bedside, depositing both items on the night table, then quickly removing what was left of his own clothing, exposing a raging hard-on to rival the one Ian was already sporting. 

Mickey wasted no time in tackling Ian to the bed, kissing him hard, his mouth enveloping Ian’s, pulling his sexy lower lip into his mouth, sucking, licking, nibbling---voraciously consuming the rare delicacy that was his new husband. “Your ass is mine...’til death do us part!” he breathed raggedly into Ian’s mouth as he rolled his hips forcefully, rubbing his rock-hard cock all over Ian like a dog in heat.

Ian returned the favor, arching his ass up to intensify their colossally satisfying genital-to-genital massage. Neither could get enough, their session’s ferocity continuing to build, the two grinding, moaning and panting as their raucous sex play escalated further, Ian matching Mickey’s rapidly intensifying rhythm, his long, lean frame bucking wildly beneath him.

“Mick…” Ian sighed breathlessly, his head reeling, buzzing, floating in lustful longing. “Please,” he begged, “I want you…” 

Mickey stared down into Ian’s pleading eyes. “Gonna take my time...Got all night with you…And the rest of our fuckin’ lives...” Mickey growled sensually, Ian quivering with excitement as Mickey continued to taunt him, grinding against him ever more slowly, and with such intention and expertise, the kind that comes from knowing everything about your lover’s being---mind, body and spirit---as if it were your own, his movements driving Ian crazy with wanton desire. 

In a matter of minutes, Ian was hovering dangerously close to his climax, Mickey thoroughly enjoying the measure of control he had over him in that moment, yet craving even more. 

“Mick! I can’t…” Ian whimpered, desperately fighting for control over his throbbing, leaking tool. It was too much---the sensations that ripped through his body, the sweet friction they created together, the mounting pleasure. Ian had waited all day, the delicious sights and sounds, the heavenly scent of his man taunting him so mercilessly that he had deemed it necessary to make HIM feel it, too, to tease him, to make Mickey want him the way he wanted Mickey. 

The impromptu photo shoot had provided him the opportunity, and he had run with it. But now it was Mickey’s turn again, and he wasn’t going to let Ian off so easy. Besides, it was their wedding night, and each wanted it to be unforgettable, no matter what it took.

Mickey knew Ian was on the edge, nearly at the point of no return. He instinctively pulled back, reveling in Ian’s plaintive cries for mercy. He paused, taking in the magnificent vision before him, Ian’s gaping, panting mouth literally begging for him, his eyes tightly closed in tortured anticipation. Mickey lifted the burning candle from the nightstand, languidly dribbling hot wax onto Ian’s chest and stomach in a straight line, stopping just short of the tip of his sticky cock. As the warmth of the wax spread over Ian’s tender skin, its ambrosial aroma rose, mixing enticingly with Mickey’s sweet, intoxicating scent. 

“Mickey…” Ian murmured softly as Mickey resumed, rocking himself still more slowly, more deliberately into him, each masterful brush of Mickey’s manhood against Ian’s pushing Ian ever nearer to the brink. 

Ian, using that last of his remaining wits, vowed to himself not to cum this way. He was bound and determined to feel Mickey from the inside, to take what was now rightfully his, to make sure Mickey felt him for days, forever remembering their first night together as husbands and the way he took him. But damn! The shit Mickey was pulling really fucked with his resolve. It was just... 

So.Fucking.Good. 

Ian squeezed his eyes shut, trying like hell to think about something---anything---that might take his mind off his incredibly sexy husband and how fucking fantastically revved up he had him, so goddamn horny he might blow a gasket any second.

Mickey, equally determined not to finish his hot-and-bothered husband too soon, suddenly stilled himself completely, sliding down Ian’s body until his nose grazed Ian’s vibrantly red bush, his beloved ‘firecrotch’. Mickey’s lips loomed mere inches from Ian’s throbbing, dribbling head, the gentle caress of his heated breath coaxing it from its rest atop Ian’s taut stomach. Mickey spread Ian’s legs wide, leisurely licking his nearly exploding, crimson cock from hilt to tip, ringing its head with his voluptuously full lips and sliding them slowly on and off, eagerly lapping up each drop of Ian’s liquid passion with his tongue as it escaped.

Ian began jutting his hips upward in spite of himself, the neglected remainder of his ample, stiff shaft thirsting for the moist warmth of Mickey’s mouth. “Lay still!” Mickey commanded, letting Ian’s cock slip from between his lips, rebounding to his abdomen with an audible thud.

Mickey puckered his lips, planting a solitary kiss over Ian’s sticky slit, then stretching his arm out to grab the tube of lube from the nightstand and dispersing a generous gob over his right index, middle and ring fingers.

“You been pushin’ it all fuckin’ night!” he growled, leaning down into Ian’s face menacingly, leaving Ian’s pulsing, aching member untouched as he began penetrating him with his index finger. “And now you’re gonna find out that all this whinin’ and poutin’ ain’t gonna get you your own fuckin’ way...At least not ‘til I fuckin’ say so!” 

Mickey’s take-charge admonition only made it worse for Ian. He was so damn hot for Mickey, he couldn’t see straight, couldn’t form a coherent thought. He was a slave to his desire for this beautiful man before him, who was teasing the fuck out of him right now. He fuckiing wanted him so bad, it hurt.

Mickey greased up both cocks, then rolled his left hand over them, stroking them together as he alternated fingering and tonguing Ian’s tight, but receptive opening, the resultant tingle sending Ian into a moaning frenzy. 

“Mick...Mick..Fuck…” Ian murmured amid the cries of rapturous desperation that spewed from his lips. 

Mickey bit down fiercely on his own lower lip periodically, staving off the verbalization of his own ecstasy in the name of showing Ian who was boss, at least for the moment.

“Mickey!” Ian squealed in agony, pulling frantically at Mickey’s hair, writhing wildly beneath him, coming completely undone, the last vestige of his composure relinquished to Mickey and his seductive wiles, “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”

“Not yet…” Mickey muttered indistinctly, his mouth obviously preoccupied with more important tasks than speech.

“Please…” came Ian’s labored plea, “...fuckin’ need you...Gonna cum...”

“No...You ain’t!” Mickey countered, slowing his left hand and methodically stretching Ian to accomodate a second finger with his right. He sucked Ian’s sack gently into his mouth, as he continued his painstaking prepwork, rolling his tongue over the underside of Ian’s balls, much to Ian’s pleasure. 

Ian twisted his fingers into Mickey’s hair, remaining otherwise statue-still. He was all but paralyzed, fearing that even the tiniest movement might trigger a premature ejaculation.

“Roll over!” Mickey ordered, extricating his hair from Ian’s grasp and watching intently as Ian struggled to turn onto his stomach. Once Mickey was out of Ian’s line of vision, he quickly prepped himself, before lifting Ian onto all fours.

“Oh fuck yes!” Ian breathed in relief, as he felt the tip of Mickey’s thick, well-lubricated cock urgently nudge his equally lube-slathered hole. 

“Yeah…’s right...You’re gonna get it...,” Mickey hissed into Ian’s ear as he worked his way haltingly into Ian. “Fuck…” he added in frustrated amazement, Ian’s exquisitely tight ass threatening to blow his entire plan out of the water.

“Message received,” Ian thought to himself with a cocky smirk, immediately recognizing how overwhelmed Mickey was by the incredible sensation of being inside him. He knew he’d had this effect on him both times previously, so now he pretty much figured it was a thing.

Ian was equally enthralled with the phenomenal feeling as their bodies became one, urgently rutting his fine derriere backward against Mickey’s thrusting hips, Mickey’s girthy unit brushing over Ian’s inner sweet spot with every driving stroke, each reentry deeper than the last, until finally, Ian took it all. 

“Mick! Jesus!” Ian screamed as Mickey fucked him harder and faster, punishing his prostate relentlessly while doing everything possible to stem the tide of his own climax.

“Ian...So fucking tight…So perfect for me...Ian,” Mickey cried out in spite of himself, literally unable to stifle the expression of his own ecstasy. Ian’s hot inner walls hugged him, squeezed him, Mickey gradually overcoming the resistance and gaining momentum, both men now teetering on the edge of an earth-shattering explosion.

“Oh fuck...Mick!” Ian yelled as he felt the beginnings of an orgasm welling up inside him.

Mickey immediately stopped, Ian shuddering at the sudden loss of stimulation. “Over onto your back. I wanna see your fuckin’ face,” Mickey growled, taking Ian by surprise. 

Ian flipped over readily, his body still quaking, yearning for its release. Mickey promptly straddled Ian and lowered himself gingerly onto Ian’s gigantic, flawlessly beautiful cock. Mickey’s generous application of lube allowed for a fairly smooth descent, although Mickey, as always, did have to finesse it a bit. Ian was huge, plain and simple, something they had both taken some time to work with, back when they were kids.

Mickey had grown impatient by this time though, recognizing Ian’s impending eruption for what it was, and wanting nothing more than to maximize it, to satisfy Ian to the utmost, to render him completely spent---useless---and all while watching the beautifully changing expressions on his pale, angelic, freckled face. Oh the things that face did to Mickey! Fuck! How he loved him! 

Mickey hissed through his gritted teeth at the burning fullness that came on, strong and sudden, Ian positively overcome with carnal delight as Mickey’s close-fitting hole squeezed him like a boa constrictor, gradually adjusting until Mickey was bouncing recklessly atop Ian’s magnificently pleasurable penis, staring down at the stunning puddle of a man under him, manipulating the angle until he had nearly done himself in.

Mickey had brought himself so close, he knew Ian had to be nearly there, too. He could read it on his gorgeous face, his parted cherry-red lips, the furrow of his sweat-beaded brow, the intensity with which he squeezed his eyes shut. Mickey had been revving Ian to high idle, then letting him simmer all night, and he knew Ian couldn’t take much more. 

“Look at me!” Mickey demanded, slowing his efforts ever so slightly as Ian opened his heavy, lust-laden eyelids to expose the most devastatingly beautiful set of green eyes Mickey had ever known. 

“Fuck, I love you…” Mickey mewled, tears rushing from his shimmering blue eyes, down his uncharacteristically rosy cheeks as both men detonated simultaneously, Ian grasping Mickey’s hips and slamming him down onto him for the final time, then holding him there as they both convulsed violently, their rapturous release more powerful than words could express, the love they shared, intuitively understood. 

Ian responded, nevertheless, in a low, raspy voice, dripping with heartfelt devotion and raw sex appeal, “Yours forever, Mick…”


	51. Morning After

The newlyweds were awakened suddenly by a loud knock at the door to their room. They had both been sleeping like babies, Mickey lovingly tucked inside Ian’s full-body embrace, as usual.

“Hey!” Baldin’s impatient voice boomed as he continued to pound on the door.

“What’s up?” Ian responded sleepily, pulling himself away from his groggy husband and reaching for a nearby pair of boxer-briefs.

“We have an appearance today in federal court,” Baldin shared, adding, “Need to be ready in half an hour.”

“What the fuck?!” Mickey exclaimed in startled irritation, rubbing his eyes, then reaching for Ian and pulling him back to a horizontal position next to him.

“Mick…We gotta get up,” Ian huffed, resigned to the day’s events as they had been dictated to them.

“Let’s go,” he continued, softening his voice as he rubbed Mickey’s back in an attempt to lessen the impact of the rude awakening he’d had.

Ian knew all too well how Mickey reacted to these types of wake-ups, and it made him sick. Mickey’s fight-or-flight mechanism went into high-gear every time, thanks to the unfortunate conditioning he’d received as a kid, both from his father and from various people he’d encountered during his early stints in juvie. 

Mickey turned toward Ian, wrapping his arms around him in protest. Ian guided Mickey’s face gently to his own, planting a sweet, good morning kiss on Mickey’s lips, then hugging Mickey into him closer. He didn’t want to get up either, but time was ticking away, and they both really needed a shower. This was certainly not the morning scenario he had envisioned, but like everything in his life, he tried his best to take it in stride. After all, he had Mickey now, for good. Anything else was just icing on the cake.

“Race you to the shower!” Ian laughed, making a move to get up on his own.

“Take it easy!” Mickey retorted, “Gotta get your chair, remember?”

“Fuck that! I’m running!” Ian chuckled, shoving Mickey back onto the bed, then proceeding to the edge of the bed, where he sat, poised to rise to his feet.

“Naw…You ain’t doin’ that,” Mickey spoke with authority, leaping up from the bed to assist his husband.

Ian’s plan had worked like a charm, and all while giving Mickey the illusion of having the upper hand. Ian smiled with delight as Mickey helped him to the bathroom, sitting him on the toilet, then running him a hot bath.

“I can shower, Mick. We don’t have much time,” Ian argued, removing his splint and again making the attempt to stand on his own.

“Fuck off! I’m gonna give my new fuckin’ husband a nice bath, and you ain’t stoppin’ me!” Mickey shot back with a sexy grin.

Ian shook his head as Mickey steered him from the toilet to the tub, easing him over its edge, then holding him steady as he sat down. It was a bit of a process, but once Ian was situated, they both thoroughly enjoyed the bathing experience. And after Mickey had finished washing Ian from head to toe, he stepped into the tub himself, at the end opposite Ian. Since Ian’s right leg was propped up on the edge, there was plenty of room for Mickey’s fine-as-fuck ass to sit between Ian’s legs.

Ian admired Mickey’s tight, round buttocks as he descended into the water, his mind instantly recalling snippets of the previous night’s activities, his stiffening cock begging for an encore.

“Damn, Mick! You look soooo good! Already thinking about night two of our honeymoon,” Ian piped up as Mickey sat across from him, lathering himself up with soap.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey smirked, raising a flirtatious eyebrow.

“Yeah…” Ian breathed, leaning forward and stroking the inside of Mickey’s left thigh.

This bath was fast becoming more than Mickey had bargained for, but he wasn’t about to deny Ian anything he wanted. Mickey reciprocated, his position allowing him to reach further, taking Ian’s now fully-aroused manhood into his fist and beginning to stroke it.

“Leaving in five minutes,” came Baldin’s bothersome voice through the door once more, following a barrage of obnoxious knocks on their door.

“Arright! Arright! Jesus!” Mickey hollered, quickly unhanding Ian’s package, then standing and reaching begrudgingly for a towel.

“Awww!” Ian whined in disappointment, his entire outlook on this whole morning plan clearly affected by his now raging hard-on.

“C’mon, Ian. Let’s get this shit over with,” Mickey muttered, helping Ian to his feet and towel-drying his hair and body, before his own, then proceeding to ask, “…the fuck’s goin’ on in court today anyway?”

“Not sure,” Ian responded as Mickey walked him over to the bed. “Guess we’ll have to ask,” he finished as Mickey began helping him on with his splint, followed by the casual wear they had been provided with the day before. “I can dress myself,” Ian asserted, after which Mickey allowed him to do so, turning to focus on covering his own naked frame.

Once they were both ready, Mickey insisted on pushing Ian in his wheelchair, despite Ian’s protests, Baldin leading the way from their room, through the conference room where they had spent the previous day and had their wedding ceremony, and on down to the underground parking garage where a large white shuttle van awaited them.

Both men were surprised to see, upon their entry, that Dr. Lange and Teresa were also in the van. “Good Morning, Newlyweds!” Dr. Lange said with a genuine smile on her face.

Teresa nodded in silent acknowledgement, her mood noticeably somber.

“Good Morning!” Ian chirped contentedly in response, as he glanced over at his husband in a way that spoke volumes as to how much he had enjoyed their wedding night.

Mickey grinned sheepishly, feeling as though both women must be imagining what they had done, and how they had done it. He found the way everyone got so damn giddy over weddings to be unsettling, and had already thanked his lucky stars that theirs hadn’t involved everyone clinking their glasses with knives, demanding that they kiss every five minutes. He loved Ian to the ends of the earth, but didn’t feel the need to show it in such a public fashion.

In fact, behind Mickey’s tough, hood-rat exterior, lay a shy, private person, who had only come as far as he had, with regard to expressing who he really was, because of his husband. In his mind, the ceremonial kiss had been more than enough for others to see, not to mention the show Ian had made of him during what he could only characterize as a full-on photo shoot, complete with cock tease. He preferred to save it all for their ‘alone time’, when he felt at ease fully expressing his love to the man who was his everything.

Once Ian caught sight of Teresa’s face, he knew something must be wrong. He immediately thought of T, since, as of the day before, there had been no disclosure of his whereabouts or condition. 

“You know what this is about today, Doc?” Mickey asked impatiently, shooting Ian a look for not asking himself, like he had said he would.

Meanwhile, Ian, who was preoccupied with Teresa’s obvious upset, had been mulling over possible ways to broach the subject with her. He had come to know her facial expressions so well, he was nearly certain she had gotten bad news.

“Today we will appear in front of a federal judge for your competency hearings. This hearing will serve to determine your mental capability to testify. I have already submitted a report, but will be questioned as to its special implications concerning the expedited Motion that has been filed on your behalf, regarding Ian’s status as an inmate,” Dr. Lange explained to Mickey, although his eyes glazed over about half way through her explanation.

Mickey turned to Ian with a puzzled look on his face. Clearly, he wanted Ian to ask some clarifying questions. He understood that the feds wanted to provide proof that they could give reliable testimony, but what was THEIR role today? Would they be asked questions in court? If so, how should they answer? And most importantly, what could they do if the judge decided to put Ian away again?

Ian had to be wondering these same things, Mickey reasoned to himself. And yet, Ian didn’t say a word, his lower lip pushed out into an adorably sincere pout.

“Hey!” Mickey yelled, elbowing Ian in the gut.

“What?!” Ian growled, glaring at Mickey with disdain.

“Ain’t ya gonna ask?” Mickey questioned, scowling back at Ian.

“I was waiting for the right time,” Ian spat between gritted teeth, attempting unsuccessfully to keep his voice low enough for only Mickey to hear.

“No time like the present, Ian,” Teresa interjected, hoping to coax him into asking whatever it was. She could see and feel how uneasy Mickey was, and was seeking to get him some relief. 

“Okay...What’s...What’s wrong?” Ian asked, focusing his eyes on Teresa. Ian had actually begun to appreciate Mickey having given him this inroad, although this was not at all what Mickey had in mind for Ian to ask.

Teresa took a deep breath, letting it out haltingly as she fought back the tears that had begun to fill her eyes almost immediately upon hearing Ian’s question.

“Well...They told me…” Teresa paused, her emotions getting the best of her. 

She tried twice more to finish her sentence before Dr. Lange finally rescued her, “T suffered a head injury and has not regained consciousness. Preliminary test results are inconclusive…” 

Dr. Lange trailed off, hoping her vague explanation would suffice. She hated to get Teresa all worked up again with a bunch of questions. After all, she had just finally gotten her to calm down a bit, following the early morning bomb that had been dropped on her. 

“I’m sorry you didn’t get better news, but T’s a fighter!” Ian responded optimistically.

“Yeah, I’m sure this ain’t over,” Mickey added reassuringly.

It was no surprise to Dr. Lange that Ian and Mickey’s votes of confidence had little effect on Teresa, who remained noticeably sullen. Dr. Lange acknowledged their kindness with a smile, then began discussing the upcoming hearing, much to Mickey’s relief. 

“This hearing was pushed up so your competency could be proven, especially yours, Ian. I asked that they petition the court to keep you two housed together, pending both trials. I basically told them that you would both be better witnesses, if you were.”

“So you’re saying it’s okay for me to say that I need Mickey?” Ian asked, reaching for Mickey’s hand, interlocking their fingers, and squeezing his hand tightly in his own. 

“Absolutely!” Dr. Lange said with a giggle, as she watched Mickey’s face turn bright red. 

The small group remained silent for the balance of the trip, except for the occasional nervous tap of Mickey’s foot. He really couldn’t wait for all of it to be over with, though he knew they had only just begun.  
___________________________

“Yes, I filed all of the records from Johns Hopkins, both sets of prison records, and Dr. Lange’s notes, along with the Motion. I don’t anticipate a problem getting the judge to allow it. I am more concerned with keeping them both safe over a long period of time in an area other than their new hometown. As you know, every residence they take up together increases the risk of them being recognized, especially with that bright red hair!” Attorney General LeDonne spoke frankly to Agent Baldin, behind closed doors, while the rest of the group sat waiting in a guarded waiting room in the courthouse.

Baldin left the small meeting room feeling more than a little bit ill-at-ease, fearing for the safety of his witnesses, but also for the strength of both cases, if they were to be tried without Ian or Mickey’s testimony. He understood that he was personally responsible for both, and it all seemed like little more than a crap shoot, at this juncture. 

Baldin approached the group, all of whom were seated in a protected room of the courthouse. “Ian, can I please see you for a minute?” he asked politely.

“Sure,” Ian replied nervously with a forced smile, reaching for the wheels on his chair and rolling down the hall, following Baldin.

“Listen, Ian, I know this isn’t what you wanna hear, but the AG thinks you’d probably be safer in a protected unit in federal prison, and that Mickey would most definitely have a better chance of not being spotted and recognized if you two didn’t live together until after the trials,” Baldin explained in as convincing a manner as he could pull off. 

“Are you saying that me being with Mickey could put him in more danger?” Ian asked, his voice soft and wavering. 

“Yes, unfortunately, it does. And I just wanted to give you a heads up, since I know Dr. Lange will be quite vocal in her support of your co-housing. She’s a hopeless romantic, and doesn’t understand the severity of the possible ramifications,” Baldin explained.

“Sergei!” Dr. Lange shouted as she burst through the door, amid spirited objections from the men who guarded it, “I don’t know what you felt the need to say to my patient without my presence, but…”

“Dr. Lange, it’s okay...He’s only trying to help,” Ian interrupted, defending Baldin, who looked like a deer in headlights.

“I heard the last of what you said to him!” she continued, as though Ian had never spoken a word, “Hopeless romantic? Not anymore! But I can spot a couple in love when I see one! And as for ramifications, I’m willing to take personal responsibility for their safety until the conclusion of both trials! We can negotiate the terms of this agreement later!”

Ian’s jaw dropped in utter amazement at the brass balls this woman seemed to have. He was speechless, awaiting Baldin’s reply.

“Sure, Deb, whatever you say! But I’m the one who will take the fall when it all blows up in our faces!” Baldin shot back angily, staring at Dr. Lange, his eyes filled with terror. 

“Sergei!” she called after him as he made a hasty exit, clearly designed to avoid having Ian or Dr. Lange see how frightened he actually was. 

Once Dr. Lange realized Baldin wasn’t coming back, she began talking with Ian about the hearing, “Don’t let these people railroad you into anything you’re not comfortable with. Remember, you have something they want, and they are prepared to go a long way to get it.”

“I know,” Ian acknowledged, “But I have to know Mickey will be safe. I won’t put him in danger because of me.”

“Ian, with all due respect, he’s in this position because of his own actions---not yours. If anything, you’re here because of HIM,” Dr. Lange countered.

“You don’t understand! If it weren’t for me, Mickey never would have been in prison in the first place!” Ian wailed. “He’s in this situation because he loved me...and I fucked him over. And now I have to protect him, at all costs.”


	52. Courthouse Chaos

Ian and Dr. Lange approached the waiting area in silence, but were met in the hallway by A.G. LeDonne and the others, who were on their way to the courtroom. Mickey had a pinched look on his face, obviously none too thrilled that Ian had been MIA at such a crucial time. 

Mickey hated court---everything about it---from the judges, to the lawyers, to the cops that were usually there to talk shit. And being separated from Ian, for even this small portion of the process, was unnerving for him. Baldin walked beside him, making what sounded, to Ian, to be small talk. Ian wondered if they had had a discussion, in his absence, about Ian’s temporary housing. He thought it was strange that Baldin hadn’t spoken to them about it together, being that they were now married, and the decision would impact them both.

As the group neared the double doors, leading into the courtroom, LeDonne pulled both Ian and Mickey aside, taking a moment to explain what to expect and how to respond to questions that might be addressed to them during the competency hearing. Of course, being that the reasons each of their mental capacities were being called into question were so different, the discussion went on for a while. Ian focused intently on both sets of instructions, asking just as many questions about Mickey’s, as his own. He knew Mickey was uneasy, and that he was unlikely to ask any questions on his own behalf, so he tried to ask about anything that might be confusing to Mickey, or that he might want or need to know. 

Once Ian was satisfied that they both knew what to expect, regarding their competency, he broached the subject of his prospective return to prison, communicating with similar verbage to what Baldin had used with him. 

“So when they bring up the whole prison thing, I should just say I’m willing to go back until after the trial?” Ian asked.

“What the fuck did you just say?!” Mickey jumped in, doing a double-take, his head spinning back in Ian’s direction. He couldn’t believe those words had just come from Ian’s lips. 

“Mick, I don’t want you to be in more danger. They think you’ll be safer if we aren’t together,” Ian explained.

“Who the fuck are THEY? And where do they get off tellin’ ya what’s good for me?!” Mickey shouted in angry frustration.

“Mickey,” LeDonne began, though Mickey didn’t want to hear a word from him.

“Shut the fuck up!” Mickey barked at LeDonne, narrowing his eyes as his gaze shifted briefly from Ian to LeDonne, then back again.

“Ian! You’re what’s best for me!” Mickey continued, his voice softening as his eyes took in the frightened look on Ian’s beautiful face, “Like I said before, I ain’t doin’ this without you!”

“Sir…” LeDonne interjected once again, doing his best to keep his voice low, his eyes darting about nervously, taking notice of the handful of curious passersby, who had casually slowed their pace, subtly turning their heads in their general direction, “It would be a matter of safety for both of you. And I was planning to request that Ian serve the remainder of his sentence on house-arrest, with the understanding that he not leave his temporary residence, other than to attend the trial. 

“What the fuck!? What about his leg?! Maybe you fucks don’t give a shit if he ever walks again...but I sure as hell do! This is the goddamn problem! You people don’t give two fucks about either of us!!” Mickey’s voice thundered throughout the corridor, readily attracting more unwanted attention from shocked onlookers.

“Mr. Belle,” LeDonne spoke quietly, pulling Mickey backward into a nearby vending area, “You really need to keep your voice…”

“FUCK YOU! You fuckin’ fix this so he goes where I go...or I’m fuckin’ DONE!!” Mickey snarled, LeDonne’s face turning bright red with a combination of fear and embarrassment.

LeDonne’s lack of verbal response prompted Mickey to turn away, reaching for Ian’s wheelchair.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you!” LeDonne snorted.

“Yeah?!” Mickey yelled as he pushed Ian briskly down the hall, away from the courtroom.

In a matter of seconds, Mickey and Ian were surrounded by four federal agents, two of whom subdued Mickey, while the other two took control of Ian’s wheelchair and pushed him away and into a doorway on the left, just past the main entrance to the courtroom. 

As this was happening, Baldin and Dr. Lange emerged from the courtroom, embroiled in an intense, yet somewhat controlled argument. Both understood that it would be imprudent for others to hear what they were saying, so they took great pains not to raise their voices, despite their obviously differing perspectives.

Once Dr. Lange caught a glimpse of Mickey being held, her temper flared. She couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “See! This is what all of your bright ideas have caused, Sergei!” she chided, motioning in Mickey’s direction. 

Baldin took one look at the distressed pout that was forming on her face, and took action, charging at Mickey’s captors and assuming complete responsibility for him, citing to a new development he needed to share with Mickey immediately. He then led Mickey directly into the room where Ian had been taken. 

It took everything in Mickey for him not to haul off and punch Baldin on the spot, but there was something about the way Dr. Lange said his name, even though she was clearly pissed as fuck at him, that gave Mickey pause.

“Look! I know you’re upset…” Baldin began, leaning in close to Mickey as he spoke in a near whisper. 

“Back the fuck off!” Mickey fumed, fighting to keep his cool, in spite of Baldin’s invasion of his personal space.

Baldin backed away, hands raised, almost in surrender.

“Where the fuck is he?!” Mickey demanded, upon finding that Ian was not in the room, as he had expected him to be. 

“You’ll need to be quiet! Court is in session!” an authoritative voice called in from the doorway into the courtroom.

“Does that mean Ian’s in there now?! Talkin’ without me?” Mickey’s strained voice screeched incredulously as he made his way toward the door. 

“MIckey! Wait!” Baldin called to him, attempting to avoid a confrontation between Mickey and the Bailiff. 

“I swear to fuckin’ God…” Mickey growled, “If he agrees to go back to prison ‘cuz of you, I’m gonna tear your fuckin’ head off!!”

Mickey was clearly off the rails and didn’t give a fuck who knew it. Baldin, on the other hand, understood all too well that outbursts like these would not be looked upon favorably by the judge, particularly since the determination of his mental competency was at issue. Luckily, it was at this precise moment that Dr. Lange pushed her way into the room, immediately deescalating Mickey.

“Mickey,” she began in a soft tone of voice, approaching him slowly and extending her hand, “Do you trust me?”

“Yeah, Doc! But not HIM!” he snarled, glaring at Baldin. 

“It’s okay, Mickey. I…” Dr. Lange attempted to assure him, before Mickey interrupted.

“Ian’s in there without me! And this clown has him ready ta go back ta fuckin’ prison! It ain’t happenin’! You know how sick he was! How the fuck can he even think about goin’ back!?” 

“Mickey...try to relax,” Dr. Lange spoke soothingly, taking Mickey’s hand firmly in her own, then turning to Baldin.

“You have to understand, Sergei...These men aren’t just witnesses, using their knowledge to get what they want! They’re victims...of brutal violence...and...and…”

 

Dr. Lange stopped, mid-sentence, searching for a less hurtful way to communicate the facts, as Mickey squeezed her hand, his eyes downcast in embarrassment. 

“Look...they’re doing their best to help us, even though much, if not all of their testimony will be very...difficult and painful for them. They’ve endured so much. Surely, you can see that!”

Baldin eyed Mickey up, nodding a cursory acknowledgment of his anguish in Dr. Lange’s direction.

Dr. Lange put an arm around Mickey, attempting to console him as she continued, “Mickey has been victimized for most of his life! When does he finally get the peace he deserves?! He has been through HELL and back, just to be with Ian...and you honestly believe he will be safer without him?! I would hope your opinion on that has changed, in light of today’s events...” Dr. Lange paused, moistening her lips briefly with her tongue before continuing.

“Please, Sergei!” she implored him, rubbing Mickey’s back lightly in response to a palpable escalation in his tenseness, after all she’d shared, “Don’t allow this mistake! I promise you, I am right about them. They need to be together.”

“Well,” Baldin responded with a half-smile, his demeanor noticeably lighter, “That was pretty convincing, for a dry run. I wouldn’t change a thing, That is exactly what you should tell the judge.”

“Let’s go, Mickey,” Dr. Lange urged, ushering him out the door and into the hallway.

“Hey!” Mickey piped up, once he felt confident that only Dr. Lange could hear him, “Since you got your guy to agree me and Ian should stay together, shouldn’t we all be in the courtroom makin’ sure Ian says the same thing?” 

Dr. Lange shot Mickey a look of self-conscious surprise. “MY guy?” she snapped defensively.

“C’mon, Doc,” Mickey snickered.

“What?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“Nothin’...We goin’ in now?” Mickey asked, letting her off the hook as they neared the double doors to the courtroom. 

“Yes, we are...and you need to stay calm. These defense attorneys may say things to try to get your riled up. Don’t let them. Remember, you and Ian being housed together depends upon two things: Number one - that you are both credible and reliable witnesses, and number two - that you can keep your cool, even in tough situations,” Dr. Lange stood still, one hand on the door handle, the other on Mickey’s shoulder, “Understand?” she questioned, as she looked Mickey in the eye. 

“Yeah, “ Mickey muttered as she pushed the door open, guiding him through it and leading him down the aisle to an available seat, next to Petrov and Teresa.

Dr. Lange sat down beside Mickey, then whispered, “All of this is nothing, compared to the kind of stuff that will be thrown at you during the trials. Remember that today, and don’t let them see your anger, no matter what. You can spout off all you want afterward, but in here, you need to remain under control.”

“Got it, Doc. Thanks!” Mickey said with a smile, as he felt the comforting warmth of Ian’s breath at the back of his neck, his voice wafting up from behind.

“There’s no way I’m leaving you---not for prison, not for ANYTHING. If they want my testimony, they’re gonna give me what I want,” Ian smirked to himself, then continued, “Judge says I’m competent, by the way, in case you were worried. Oh, and I didn’t mean to get you so upset...but you were fucking incredible!” Ian praised Mickey, whose face flushed in modest embarrassment. 

“I love you, Mick!” Ian intimated in a low, sultry voice, as he rested a hand tenderly on Mickey’s shoulder, after which he pressed his lips lightly against the nape of Mickey’s neck, just below his hairline.

Shortly thereafter, Mickey was called before the court to answer nearly the exact questions LeDonne had predicted, from the judge, as well as counsel for the defense. Once Mickey had also been deemed competent, through the use of Dr. Lange’s treatment records, along with his own testimony, the issue of their living arrangements finally came into question.

“I’d like to call Dr. Debra Lange at this time, Your Honor,” LeDonne announced in an artificially deep-sounding tone of voice, “to clarify the reasoning behind her request that these two witnesses, out of medical necessity, cohabitate throughout both trials. As I am sure you are aware, this would entail releasing this inmate from his obligation to serve the remainder of his sentence in federal prison. And while this may seem like a risky endeavor, I am quite certain that, after hearing Dr. Lange’s testimony, you will concur that serving the remainder of his sentence on house-arrest is best for all concerned. 

Dr. Lange rose to her feet, striding confidently to the front of the courtroom and taking a seat in the witness stand. She smiled widely as Baldin, who took her place next to Mickey, once she’d gotten up, winked at her subtly, giving her the thumbs up as she sat, poised to defend her request and, more importantly, the right of two newlyweds to begin their much-deserved life together.


	53. Friend Zone

A military access van pulled up in front of a bungalow-style house on a nondescript street in base housing on the U.S. Marine Corps base in Quantico, Virginia. Mickey slid the door open, hopping out and heading for the rear of the van, where a bleach-blonde Ian, sporting a high and tight, was lowered to street level in his wheelchair. Mickey pushed Ian’s chair up a narrow sidewalk, following Baldin, who arrived at the handicapped-accessible porch first, unlocking the front door, then handing a set of keys to Mickey, once he and Ian were inside. 

The decision for their temporary placement had been borne of Dr. Lange’’s additional research into Ian’s background, and Baldin’s knowledge of the base, given the fact that he’d had his federal training there. Since Ian had been in the Army, al biet under less than favorable circumstances, it was fairly easy to temporarily recreate a service record for him. 

Baldin, with Petrov’s help, since he, too, was a veteran, invented a backstory wherein Ian had been injured while deployed in Afghanistan, his husband relocating to Quantico to assist in his convalescence and, ultimately, once he received his Honorable Discharge, to take him back home. They’d even gone so far as to provide Mickey with a vehicle to transport his fair-haired husband to and from PT and doctor’s appointments. 

Quantico, the site for FBI and other federal training programs, in addition to being a Marine Corps base, had extremely tight security, allowing for only civilians with Top Secret clearances and/or formal government contracts to enter, making it the most secure living situation in the area for the couple that could provide for Ian’s medical needs. As part of this package, Dr. Lange, herself in possession of a Top Secret security clearance, would be afforded weekly access to her patients as well.

Baldin spent only a few minutes reviewing the parameters of Mickey and Ian’s short-term residence there, before leaving them to their own devices. They were told they were free to travel within the confines of the base, to go to the Commissary, the Exchange, or any of the restaurants on the premises, but Ian had to be back to the house before 6, and could not leave it in the morning before 8, as a condition of his house arrest, which was to be enforced through the tracking of his cell phone. 

They were given a small stipend for food, each also receiving a cell phone with the understanding that they use them only to call one another or the Naval Clinic. They were forbidden to have any contact with the other witnesses, or to make any calls to any federal office or agent, except in the case of an absolute emergency. They were to be friendly and nonchalant, but not become overly close or familiar with anyone, and were to attend all pre-scheduled appointments, cancelling under only the most extreme of circumstances. 

The RICO case against the Aryan Brotherhood was set to begin in a matter of days, so Ian’s first physical therapy appointment was scheduled for 2:00 PM on the same day of their arrival. No one on the base, including the medical staff who would be treating Ian, would be made aware of Ian’s true background, so Ian had already spent some time on their way to the base, fielding likely questions about his injuries, his background and his prior military service experiences. Mickey had thought he had it down cold, but Ian insisted on Mickey quizzing him periodically throughout the day, prior to his appointment. They made a morning of familiarizing themselves with the house and its contents, watching T.V. and just hanging out, which allowed ample time for Ian to ‘rehearse’ his answers.

It wasn’t long before Mickey started to make a joke of it, which had Ian cracking up. He came up with a whole host of goofy questions, the last of which was, “Corporal Belle, how the hell did this clown score a beautiful blonde bombshell like you?” 

Ian, instantly blushing bright pink, shot back quickly, “I don’t know. I guess the head injury I suffered must have affected my vision. But damn...he sure FELT hot as fuck on our wedding night! At least, I think so...I might need to refresh my recollection...” 

Ian smiled seductively, closing the distance between them as he finished his answer, then leaned into Mickey, their faces mere centimeters apart. 

“Oh, I can definitely see how he got me,” Ian purred, Mickey’s mesmerizing blue eyes drawing him in until he was kissing him tenderly, licking and nibbling hungrily at his luscious lips, allowing his hands to roam freely over Mickey’s alluringly sexy body, ultimately focusing his efforts below the waist, lightly massaging Mickey’s rapidly plumping manhood from the outside of his attractively package-hugging sweats.

“Damn, Corporal! You sure know how to handle a gun!” Mickey whined, jutting his hips upward to increase the friction between himself and Ian’s teasing hand.

Ian could feel his own erection pressing urgently against the zipper of the only pair of jeans the feds had given him. He had been more than happy to finally have the chance to wear something besides sweats or khakis, which, other than his wedding tux, had been all he’d worn since being taken into federal custody in D.C. But now, he really wished he had opted for the sweats, like Mickey had.

Sensing Ian’s discomfort, Mickey offered to help him off with his jeans, refusing to take no for an answer. Mickey shimmied Ian’s jeans down over his hips, yanking his boxers down after them and diving at Ian’s hard-as-fuck, perfectly beautiful cock, proceeding to suck masterfully at its head, loosening moan after ecstatic moan from deep within Ian’s throat as he intensified his routine, taking more length in with each tantalizing pass. 

Ian was completely at the mercy of his amorous mate, tugging rapturously at the ultra-short hair atop Mickey’s head, as he unraveled more with every second of Mickey’s persistent, spot-on oral manipulation, when there came a knock at the door. “Fuck!” Mickey muttered under his breath as he allowed Ian’s instantly deflating dick to slip from between his lips. 

“Who the hell would be coming here anyway?” Ian called out in frustration as Mickey headed for the door, tossing a small woven blanket back in Ian’s direction.

“...the fuck knows?” Mickey answered with his signature shoulder shrug, pausing to look through the peephole in the door, before swinging it wide open.

“Welcome!” a slight young woman, looking to be in her early twenties, said with a shy smile, offering a plate of cookies to Mickey as he reluctantly returned her greeting with a nod, wiping  
self-consciously at the moist corners of his mouth with his sleeve.

“My name is Miranda. My husband and I live two doors down. He’s been stationed here for almost a year now. Do you and your wife know anyone here?” she continued, her speech pattern rushed, but deliberate, as though she had rehearsed the whole spiel and was afraid she might forget something.

“Uh...it’s…” Mickey began awkwardly, Ian wheeling himself up to the door just in time to save the day.

“Hi!” Ian joined in with a smile as bright as the sun, “I’m Ian! Ian Belle! I see you’ve already met my husband, Mickey.” Ian backed his chair up, motioning for the woman to come in, then taking his flushed and obviously ill-at-ease husband by the hand and leading them both into the living room to sit down.

“Thank you!” Miranda beamed, taking a seat next to a still visibly nervous Mickey, then reintroducing herself, this time to Ian.

“Thank YOU!” Ian returned with a grin, taking the plate of cookies from Mickey’s other hand and putting them on the coffee table, then reaching for one.

There was a brief, awkward silence as Ian chewed on his first of many cookies, leaving Mickey to hold the conversation with their guest.

“Nice ta meet ya...And no...we don’t know no one,” he spoke bluntly, doing his best to be cordial and hoping like hell that Ian would swallow his mouthful of cookies and rescue him. 

“I just got here...from Afghanistan…” Ian clarified, once he’d finished his first cookie, “I was injured there...probably getting out soon...so they flew Mickey here to help me. Got PT everyday for a while, then we’ll see…” Ian trailed off, Mickey smiling proudly at Ian for having done such a great job, bullshitting so effortlessly about his largely invented past. 

The only thing in Ian’s whole story that was real, was Mickey, which also made him fucking ecstatic! He still couldn’t fucking believe it, but he loved the way it rolled off Ian’s tongue, “My husband, Mickey...” The only thing that even came close to the feeling those three words from Ian gave him was the shiny, gold band Ian had slid on his finger only days ago. He felt for it often with his thumb, spinning it contentedly in circles, its smooth caress a soothing reminder that Ian was his now, for keeps. 

Miranda went on to explain that they had come to Quantico after her husband’s deployment in Syria. They had been apart for six months, after which they moved in, not knowing a soul, though they were extremely happy to be reunited after their separation. She hoped that by stopping by, she and her husband, Marcus, might be able to help Ian and Mickey get acclimated. She apologized for her assumptions, both that Mickey was the service member, and that he had a wife. 

She had clearly been embarrassed, but Ian just smiled and said, “That’s okay, we get that all the time,” gripping Mickey’s hand a bit more tightly in his own and rubbing his thumb over Mickey’s affectionately. 

The trio chatted for a good half an hour, mostly small talk about shopping and eating options on and near base, before Mickey’s phone sounded, a reminder that they needed to leave soon for Ian’s appointment. 

“Gotta get goin’, Ian. Don’t wanna be late for your first appointment,” Mickey spoke up, Miranda taking the hint and standing up, turning for the door.

“I’ll let you two get going,” she said politely, adding, “We’d love to have you two over for dinner sometime...I know Marcus will want to meet you. What did you say your MOS was?”

“Communications Maintenance,” Ian rattled off, “And how about Marcus?”

“He’s actually a sailor!” she laughed, “A Hospital Corpsman---8404---assigned to a Marine Unit. Their doctor in the field.”

“Wow!” Ian exclaimed, his interest in meeting this guy suddenly piqued, “I was…” 

And then he stopped, Mickey squeezing his hand and shooting him a discreet, disapproving glare. Ian, realizing that he wasn’t allowed to share anything about his real previous life, recovered quickly, “I mean...I’d love to meet him...soon!” 

Mickey sprung up from the couch, ushering her out the door as he thanked for for the cookies and the warm welcome. He shut the door quietly behind her, then turned to address Ian, “What the fuck?!” he bellowed.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just…” Ian stammered apologetically.

“You just almost risked blowin’ our fuckin’ cover, is what ya fuckin’ did!” Mickey finished, fuming mad and trying unsuccessfully to temper the outward display of his anger.

“C’mon, Mick, I would’ve caught myself,“ Ian defended half-heartedly, looking down at his feet, wishing he could get up by himself and walk over to Mickey. He wanted to add, ‘I got something you can blow,’ but judging by Mickey’s reaction to his minor slip up, Ian knew he was no longer in the mood. And so he sat, a captive audience to Mickey’s rant.

“Shit, Ian! I don’t know if you can be around this guy! And ya better keep that shit to yourself at this appointment, too!” Mickey chided Ian, red-faced and quickly becoming winded.

Ian could feel himself getting pissed off---frustrated---not only because of Mickey’s remarks, but because of his own limitations, physical and mental. He couldn’t fucking walk, couldn’t even drive himself to his appointment. And he couldn’t control his own outbursts, his off-the-cuff responses to things. He needed to learn to keep his fucking mouth shut! Mickey was right, though he’d never let him know it, especially after the way he had just spoken to him. 

He wanted to turn the tables on Mickey, to yell at him, to make him feel the same terrible way he was feeling at the moment, but he knew in his heart of hearts that Mickey’s verbal lashing was fear-based, which hurt him more than anything Mickey could ever say to him.

Ian sat silent and motionless, the realization suddenly dawning on him that the first of what would likely be many opportunities for friendship had become yet another potentially dangerous interaction to fear and, ultimately, to avoid. Ian frowned, his lower lip jutting out into a pitiful pout. Mickey looked on helplessly, Ian’s profound sadness spilling out, filling the space around him, drawing Mickey in, gnawing at the happiness and contentment he had felt only moments before.

And so Mickey went to him, his husband, his everything, holding him close and doing his best to comfort him, “Ian, I’m sorry...I love you.”


	54. Unspoken

Mickey managed to console Ian sufficiently, after his angry outburst, for him to begin getting ready for his appointment. Ian fully understood why Mickey had flipped out, but that didn’t make any of it any easier for Ian. He was a friendly person, by nature, and keeping his mouth shut didn’t come nearly as easily to him, as it did to Mickey. Mickey, though he could be extremely outspoken in certain scenarios, had become quite adept, over the years, at knowing when not to be, so he didn’t have much patience for Ian, when it came to this type of unnecessary risk. 

In spite of their differences in that regard, Mickey had really hurt Ian’s feelings, and he felt terrible about it. He had done everything short of give him a lap dance, in an effort to get back in his good graces, but in the end, it was as easy as burying his face into Ian’s chest, admitting that he had been overly harsh, and vowing to take it all back, if Ian would only forgive him. 

Ian had found Mickey’s tender show of remorse to be so endearing, it took everything in him not to start crying, on the spot. Ian was a tough cookie, but he had a real soft spot for his husband, particularly upon the rare occasion that he allowed himself to be this vulnerable. While it was true that Mickey had begun to open himself up almost fully to Ian again, there still seemed to be a tiny reserve that he kept, the product of a barely-there, but, nonetheless, nagging feeling of doubt that had plagued him, ever since their reunion. 

Sure, the wedding, along with Ian’s daily proclamations of undying love for him, had gone a long way to assuage Mickey’s insecurity, but Ian’s recurring sadness over being cut off from his family and having to maintain a fictitious backstory with everyone they would ever come to know, ate away at Mickey’s very soul. He feared that, as much as Ian loved him, he would never be enough to fill all of the voids forcibly created by their unfortunate situation, for which Mickey held himself personally accountable. 

The ride to Ian’s PT appointment was unusually quiet, Ian uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He turned their circumstances over in his mind endlessly, afraid that if he uttered a word of what he was thinking, he and Mickey would get into another disagreement. He knew neither of them needed that. He told himself things would be better, once the trials were behind them, enabling them to focus on building their new life in Breckenridge. After all, it would be their permanent home, so they’d be able to make at least some friends, to put down some real roots. Plus, Teresa and the rest of the protected witnesses would be somewhat nearby, allowing them to be their true selves around a few people, even if it was less frequent than he would like. 

Ian looked over at Mickey, noticing what were fast becoming deeply-etched worry lines in his forehead, though Mickey would never admit to it. This whole experience was undoubtedly taking its toll on both of them, and Ian couldn’t help but to trace it all back to his own poor decision-making. It was more than just leaving Mickey at the border crossing, although that, in and of itself, was unforgivable, in his mind. The sad truth was that Ian had walked away from Mickey, pushed him away, shut him out, ignored him, abused him, even been unfaithful when they WERE together, and through it all, Mickey just kept coming back for more. 

Ian often wondered what he had ever done to deserve such a kind, forgiving, compassionate mate, all cloaked in such a sexy, badass persona, and this day was no exception. While Mickey had, without question, spoken severely to Ian, it was out of love and concern, two things Mickey had showered on him consistently, from the moment he had come back into his life for the first time, after his brief, disastrous stint in the Army, despite his mental illness and resultant shortcomings.

Ian looked on reverently as Mickey pulled up in front of the Naval Clinic and popped the trunk, stopping short of unloading Ian’s wheelchair after noticing one sitting in the clinic’s vestibule. He slammed the trunk shut, then turned for the clinic door. Ian watched his husband swagger toward the entrance, retrieving the wheelchair. Ian loved the way Mickey moved. He was ridiculously hot, and always looked so sure of himself when he was out in public. It was only when he was around his father, or when he and Ian were on the outs, that Ian caught a glimpse of the self-doubt Mickey worked so hard to keep hidden, and Ian hated seeing it rear its ugly head every time.

Mickey returned with the chair, proceeding to help Ian into it. 

“Thanks, Mick,” Ian spoke gratefully, breaking the uncomfortable silence between the two. 

Mickey gave a slight nod of his head, before responding, “Hopin’ once we get ya in there ta see the doc, we won’t need one of these fuckers anymore,” a warm smile spreading across his face as Ian reached for his hand.

“I’m gonna walk, Mick...Just need to know how I can ease into it, ya know?” Ian squawked cheerfully, the prospect of his independent movement seeming to suddenly lift his mood considerably.

“I know ya will, Ian,” Mickey breathed confidently, pressing a quick kiss into the crown of Ian’s head before pushing him into the clinic lobby. 

_________________________________

Petrov followed closely behind Baldin and Dr. Lange, who were his escorts through the maze of dimly lit hallways and alcoves that comprised the clandestine medical treatment facility, housing the most critically-ill, high-risk witnesses under the protection of the federal government. Petrov’s présence there was highly unusual, if not unprecedented, and had been allowed only in response to what was considered a man’s dying wish. 

Dr. Lange led both men to the doorway of a small room, equipped with state-of-the-art life-support equipment, including a ventilator that ‘breathed’ for the otherwise lifeless body on the small cot, which was dwarfed by the extensive electronics surrounding it.

“Oh my god…” Petrov gasped, as he focused on the seemingly comatose patient, recognizing him as none other than a pale, emaciated version of the man he knew as ‘T’, “Is he...?”

“He’s alive...for the moment,” Dr. Lange whispered in response to Petrov’s unfinished question. “He’s been tortured, and his lungs appear to have been burned chemically, from the inside out. He was also shot in the back during his escape. His spinal cord has been damaged, and…” 

Dr. Lange stopped speaking abruptly, turning to Baldin, the expression on her face perplexing to Petrov. Baldin, on the other hand, seemed to have read her mind, picking up where she had left off. “His prognosis is poor, but if he does recover, it’s very likely he’ll be paralyzed from the waist down,” he finished with a quiet sigh of resignation.

“You said he wanted to see ME?” Petrov asked, bewildered by the situation that was unfolding before him.

“Yes,” Dr. Lange confirmed, “We are keeping him sedated, in hopes that his lungs might heal while he is on the ventilator, but when he was last awake, he insisted on writing something.”

“Here it is,” Baldin chimed in, handing Petrov a white-board. “Bring Petrov. Tell everyone else I’m dead. I need him to keep Teresa safe,” it read. 

Petrov’s lips moved silently as he reread the scrawled message before him, after which he approached T’s bedside, leaning down to speak softly into his ear. “T...You know I’d do anything for you, after all you’ve done to help us all, but…”

Petrov paused, looking back at the doorway, then motioning for privacy, which both Dr. Lange and Baldin immediately granted him, closing the door from the outside. 

“Hey...Can you hear me? Try to blink or move your eyelids, if you hear me,” Petrov instructed, raising his voice a bit. 

Petrov watched as T appeared to be doing his best to blink, though his eyes remained shut, and Petrov couldn’t say for sure if he’d actually seen it, or whether it was wishful thinking on his part. He continued as if he had, “Okay...good! You can’t do this! You gotta get better! You have an important job to do.”

__________________________

“Deb!” Baldin called out to Dr. Lange as she stepped away, pulling her phone from her pocket to read a text. 

“What?” she answered, looking up from her phone in annoyance.

“What do you think that’s all about?” Baldin asked, his curiosity getting the best of him. 

“Whatever it is, it’s between them,” Dr. Lange defended, refocusing on her phone and beginning to scroll through what must have been a lengthy message.

“Like what?” Baldin questioned skeptically.

“Who knows?” she responded, finally giving him her full attention, “I guess it’s none of our business. Sometimes people have secrets,” she added, raising an eyebrow. 

“If it has to do with this case or any of the witnesses, it IS my business!” Baldin countered.

“Look,” Dr. Lange snarled, “In his current condition, none of that matters. Can you just let the man have some peace? I feel certain that, whatever Petrov is saying, it’s for T’s personal benefit. Anything positive that can be communicated to him at this point is a plus…” Her voice trailed off as she stared intently into Baldin’s eyes, frustrated, as usual, with his lack of perspective and empathy.

“Oh, it’s all hearts and flowers with you,” Baldin hissed. 

“The case doesn’t matter. Fuck the A.G.’s Office, as long as we keep everyone happy. To hell with the rules, right?!” Baldin barked sarcastically, “Unless, of course, they’re your rules. Then it’s a different ball game altogether, isn’t it, Deb?” 

“Now that’s not true...and you know it!” she yelled back into his face, her voice thick with passionate denial.

“Oh yeah?” he growled, approaching her aggressively until he had her literally pinned against the wall, their faces only inches apart, his needy desperation spilling over her like a potent aphrodisiac.

“Sergei! I…” Dr. Langue began, Baldin silencing her with his longing lips as he pressed his muscled form firmly against hers, the electrifying chemistry between them, immediate and powerful.

She made a brief, half-hearted attempt to free herself, before caving to his insatiable heat, their mouths and bodies crashing together wildly, if only for a moment, before she regained control of her emotions, reluctantly pushing him away.

“I...I can’t…” she panted breathlessly, a lone tear trailing down her face as she pushed him away, “I’m sorry.”


	55. Out of Bounds

The unspoken, anticipatory stress that enveloped the newlyweds was fast reaching critical mass, and yet its effects remained largely unaddressed, the two choosing instead to focus on the more mundane, yet cumbersome, mentally and physically exhausting events that plagued their daily existence. 

It had been, after all, a long, intense week, with little time for Ian and Mickey to reflect on their interaction with their new neighbors, to ponder their situation, or even to spend any quality alone-time together, entire days having been spent at the clinic, Ian suffering through myriad doctors’ examinations, PT sessions, and even having been considered as a possible surgical candidate, at one point. 

Mickey really needed some stress relief. He’d been orchestrating everything pertaining to Ian’s medical care all week, and he was absolutely drained, not to mention worried---about everything from Ian’s long-term prognosis, to their upcoming testimony, to their lives afterward, without any of Ian’s family.

Finally, the day came when it seemed to Mickey that Ian’s medical treatment team might allow them to start managing some of Ian’s recovery at home, which made Mickey smile. He began plotting the course for some evening adventures immediately, most of which involved drinks and as much sex as Ian could handle. In Mickey’s mind, this was just what the doctor ordered.

As they pulled up to the house, Mickey was focused on doing all he could to expedite the whole process. “Well, now that I know you gotta use this everyday, I’ll be makin’ sure…” Mickey grunted as he muscled the box containing Ian’s new stationary bike out of the backseat of the car. 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, Mick. I’ll do what I can, when I can. Besides, I’ll still be able to do my rehab at the clinic until the trial starts,” Ian muttered with a pain-filled grimace as he struggled to exit the car on his own, leaning heavily on his also new four-pronged cane. His doctor felt as though his PT sessions were going fairly well, considering the length of time he had spent, throughout his healing process, without the stretching and strengthening necessary to reestablish stability and mobility. His muscles had atrophied significantly, and even the simplest of exercises brought on a great deal of discomfort and fatigue, but, in a relatively short period of time, he’d made sufficient progress to begin bearing substantial weight on his leg.

“Yeah, c’mon, grandpa! I’ll help ya ta the door. Ya worked hard there today,” Mickey grinned, dropping the box in the driveway and rushing over to the passenger’s side of the car. 

“No, Mick! I’m gonna do this myself!” Ian insisted, a look of fierce determination etched into his brow.

“Okay, fine!” Mickey shrugged, returning to retrieve the heavy, awkward box he now had to lift from the ground. 

Mickey got about halfway to the door, when he heard his phone buzz. “Fuck!” he exclaimed in frustration. He didn’t want to drop the box again, but he felt compelled, under the circumstances, to answer the phone. Baldin had told them he would be in touch, and that it was important that he be able to reach them at all times. 

“I got it!” Ian yelled, closing the distance between the two of them as quickly as possible, given his limitations. 

Once he’d caught up to Mickey, he reached into the front, side pocket of his sweats to grab the phone.

“Uh...that ain’t the phone…” Mickey teased with a smirk, his eyebrows quirking up flirtatiously.

“Hello…” Ian answered, too preoccupied with the phone call to even acknowledge Mickey’s playfulness.

“Hello...Is this Mickey?” an official-sounding female voice asked.

“Yes, it is,” Ian lied, leaning heavily on his cane as he neared the front door to their new home, where Mickey stood, winded and waiting, after having finally managed to get the unwieldy bike box inside. 

Ian certainly could have said ‘no’, and given the phone to Mickey, but knowing how easily Mickey got rattled in these sorts of situations, he opted to take the call himself, figuring it most likely pertained to both of them anyway.

“This is Sandra from the Attorney General’s office. Attorney LeDonne asked me to give you some information, but first, can you please tell me your birthdate and your middle name?” 

Now Ian really had to think. They had both been assigned new middle names and birthdates, but he could, unfortunately, for this moment, remember only his own. 

“I...I...I’m not sure, but I have the papers inside,” Ian stammered, Mickey shooting him a ‘Who the fuck is that?’ look. 

“I need our IDs,” Ian whispered, as he fumbled for the ‘mute’ button on Mickey’s new phone.

Mickey ran to the kitchen, quickly returning with their folders, after which Ian continued, “Okay...it’s...it’s James...and...and...January 19th...1993.”

“Alright. Thank you, Mickey. A military transport vehicle will pick you up tomorrow morning at 8 AM sharp. And don’t bring any of those documents, okay?” 

“Sure. Can you tell me what this is about?” Ian asked, Mickey becoming visibly more uneasy by the second.

“You will begin giving your testimony tomorrow,” Sandra answered matter-of-factly. 

“Oh...Okay,” Ian replied, pressing the ‘end’ button on Mickey’s phone.

“Arright, so why did ya hafta give ‘em my new shit?” Mickey asked, the lines in his forehead seeming to become instantly more pronounced. 

“Guess she just had to be sure it was you on the phone,” Ian answered, holding his arms out expectantly in Mickey’s direction, from his now seated position on the couch. 

“Yeah? Well, I wasn’t on the fuckin’ phone, was I?” Mickey growled, plopping down next to Ian with an attitude.

“Well...no...but what’s the difference? I know you hate talking business on the phone. Plus, you were carrying that heavy-ass box!” Ian countered defensively.

“Okay, so why the fuck did they call?!” Mickey yelled, clearly irritated.

“We gotta go to court tomorrow, Mick,” Ian sighed, watching Mickey’s mood deflate, like a shrinking balloon. Ian knew Mickey was about to go ballistic. He could tell by the way the veins had popped out in his neck during his outburst, only a moment before.

“See! Now I’m really fuckin’ pissed! I shoulda taken that call!” Mickey thundered, Ian flinching at the sheer volume of his voice, Mickey’s mouth only a few inches from Ian’s ear.

“Why, Mick? It’s the same either way,” Ian reasoned, softening his tone in an effort to de-escalate Mickey.

“No the fuck it ain’t! I’d’ve told the dude no! I got plans for tonight!” he hissed, reaching for the bottle of Henny they had bought at the commissary the day before, “And I ain’t plannin’ to stop ‘til mornin’!”

“Mick, you’re being unreasonable!” Ian responded, raising his voice a bit.

“These fuckin’ people don’t own us, and they need to fuckin’ understand that!” Mickey spat contemptuously, glaring at Ian as he continued, “Gimme my phone! I’m gonna call that asshole...tell him we ain’t comin’ tomorrow! You’re in fuckin’ pain and I’m...I’m...we gotta fuckin’ relax,” Mickey grunted, unscrewing the lid on the bottle and taking a long swig. 

“Speaking of pain,” Ian began with a smile, attempting to lighten the mood and distract Mickey from making the phone call at the same time, “What did you do with my pain pills?”

“Ian, ya know ya just took one. Not time for another one yet,” Mickey snarled, frustrated with Ian’s frequent overuse of the limited amount of medication he was given, in addition to his overstepping his bounds by impersonating him on his phone. 

“C’mon, Mick! Jesus! Like you just said, I’m in pain!” Ian hollered, quickly losing patience with Mickey. 

“You’re gonna run out again. Then what? They’re not gonna give ya more next time,” Mickey argued.

“Fine! I’ll find them myself!” Ian snorted, repositioning himself so he could reach his cane, “They’re mine! I should be the one to decide when I need more!”

“No!” Mickey objected, holding Ian to the couch with one hand and raising the bottle of Henny to Ian’s lips with the other, “Here! Have some of this. It’ll make ya feel better.” 

Mickey pressed the bottle against Ian’s lips and tilted it high, compelling Ian to swallow a large gulp, despite his obvious displeasure.

“Shit, Mickey! Can I at least have a chaser?” Ian complained, the potent liquid burning its way down his throat as he grabbed the bottle from Mickey’s hand roughly, a large portion of the remainder spilling over the front of him as Mickey leveraged the bottle away from Ian.

“What the fuck, Ian?! You spilled most of it!” Mickey whined, shoving Ian into the couch, then slamming the more than half empty bottle onto the coffee table as he stood, turning abruptly for the front door.

“Where are you going?!” Ian screamed, using one hand to wipe at the booze that dribbled sloppily from his chin, the other to regrip the bottle, the alcohol already beginning to fuel his anger.

“Out!” Mickey called over his shoulder as he reached into his pocket for the car keys.

“Mick!” Ian screamed, “Don’t leave…”

Mickey slammed the door shut behind him as Ian finished his sentence, essentially talking to himself, “...without me.”

______________________________________

Baldin listened as Petrov outlined his plan for sharing T’s ‘demise’ with Teresa. He understood what T wanted, and why, but he still couldn’t wrap his head around how such horrific news could be broken to Teresa, especially with all of the pressure she was under, with both trials coming up. He constructed a response in his head as Petrov droned on, sharing, among other things, his feelings for Teresa.

Baldin’s phone buzzed. He had received an urgent message from the main office, diverting his attention from Petrov long enough to read it, then interrupting him.

“Hey, yeah...I understand...and I do want to discuss this whole thing before you have a conversation with Teresa, but unfortunately, I’m on my way to Quantico. Mickey’s phone just pinged outside the perimeter of the base,” Baldin explained to Petrov.  
__________________________________

An inebriated Ian wheeled himself out to the sidewalk and down the street, the sun just beginning to set, but the streetlights not yet lit. He approached the house where he thought Miranda and Marcus must live, straining to see the house number as he rolled himself toward the porch. 

“Yep!” he said to himself with great satisfaction, approaching the door and knocking sharply.

“Ian!” Miranda exclaimed in surprise, upon opening her door and seeing him on her front step. 

“Hi,” he said, flashing her his best fake smile and doing his best to conceal his drunkenness. 

“Come on in!” she offered, adding, “Marcus isn’t here, but we can talk for awhile. Where’s Mickey?”

“Actually, I have a...big favor to ask. Mickey has the car and I… I have something I gotta do,” Ian enunciated as best he could, hoping not to appear tipsy. “Could I... pl...please borrow... your car?”

“But…” Miranda began, pointing to his wheelchair, a questioning look on her face.

“Oh...this? Fastest way I could get here. The doc just... gave me the green-light...to start driving again. Mickey...Mickey and I took...a drive around the base earlier today... and I did fine,” Ian spoke deliberately, explaining his invented story with mock confidence and tremendous believability.

“How about if I…” Before she could finish her sentence, the shrill cry of a baby met their ears.

“Oh...I’ll be...Well, here,” she stuttered, lifting her keys from a small hook near the door. 

“Thanks!” Ian said with a cool nod, realizing pretty quickly how difficult it was going to be for him to get himself into the car without his cane, especially in his current state of intoxication. 

Somehow he managed, backing the car out and heading for the gate. He picked up his phone, dialing the only number he knew by heart.

“Hello,” said the voice the made his eyes moist the moment he heard it, a flood of memories washing over him in an instant.

“Fiona...” he slurred, breaking down and sobbing into the phone.


	56. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All,
> 
> Sorry this chapter took awhile, but at least you have over an hour before the premiere of The Red Line! Hopefully this will keep you entertained as you anxiously await seeing our lovely and talented Noel!
> 
> Happy Reading! Happy Watching! Happy Day!

Once he cooled off a bit, Mickey did some soul-searching as he drove around town, looking for a liquor store that was still open. He decided to just pick up some pizza and beer, then high-tail it back to Ian and try to salvage what he had initially hoped would be a fantastic night. He now realized that he never should have left Ian at the house. He had been really pissed, and sought to avoid escalating the situation, so he took off, without considering the severity with which Ian might react. 

His phone was buzzing, non-stop, and, at first, he ignored all calls, including Ian’s, too angry to even touch his phone, for fear of chucking it out the window. It wasn’t long, however, before he wished Ian WOULD call. Unfortunately, by that time, Ian had stopped trying. And since Mickey had had enough of the feds’ bullshit for the day, as soon as he saw a call coming from a number other than Ian’s, he hit the ‘fuck you’ button.

He was sitting in the parking lot of a Pizza Hut, contemplating what to order for Ian as a peace offering, when a black sedan pulled up next to him. His heart immediately started pounding, his shaky right hand instinctively reaching toward the glove box for the non-existent gun he would, could and should have been carrying, had it not been for the very situation that put him in his current, unarmed predicament.

Mickey swallowed hard, beads of sweat forming along his hairline as he checked his rearview mirror, catching sight of a vehicle that had come to a stop behind his, effectively eliminating the possibility of him fleeing the lot. He could sense a pair of eyes on him as he awaited the mystery driver’s next move. He ducked as he saw the tinted front, passenger-side window of the sedan begin to open, anticipating the gunshots that he was sure would be aimed in his direction. 

Instead, there was a brief silence, before the sound of a car door opening, then closing, followed by footsteps heading for his car. Mickey figured that, whoever it was, they needed an identifying picture, for proof they had actually offed him. His eyes nervously scanned his surroundings, searching for anything he could use in self-defense.

Nothing.

What the fuck was he thinking, leaving base? Leaving Ian? He chided himself inside his head as the footsteps continued their ominous approach. Should he exit from the other side of the car and run? That would put a pretty big target on his back, but then again, he was basically a sitting duck, if he stayed in the car. He couldn’t just lie there, ensuring that he’d never see Ian again. He had to do SOMETHING!

He made the split-second decision to attempt an escape out the passenger-side of the car, lunging for the door handle in utter desperation. “Mickey!” a familiar voice called out, just as he dumped out, hands first, onto the asphalt. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Baldin barked incredulously as he rounded the front of the car, catching sight of Mickey as he struggled to get to his feet. 

“Well, I…” Mickey stammered as Baldin helped him up.

“You’ve been drinking!” Baldin snorted with disgust.

“No shit, Sherlock!” Mickey spat back sarcastically, the effects of the alcohol loosening his tongue a bit.

“...and driving!” Baldin added, becoming more aggravated by the minute.

“Get in!” Baldin ordered, walking Mickey over to the rear passenger-side door of the sedan, opening it and shoving him inside.

“What about the fuckin’ car?” Mickey yelled as Baldin got behind the wheel of the sedan and started it up.

“I’ll have someone retrieve it tomorrow,” Baldin answered flatly, his phone buzzing incessantly as he backed out of the parking spot next to Mickey’s car and prepared to merge onto the highway. 

“Yeah, cuz we’re gonna need it,” Mickey continued, despite Baldin’s shaking head.

“Oh no, you won’t be getting that car back! That’s not how this works!” Baldin blasted back at Mickey.

“...the fuck?!” Mickey howled, the reality of the situation slowly sinking in. 

“Hello,” Baldin muttered, finally addressing whomever it was that had been blowing his phone up relentlessly throughout his interaction with Mickey in the parking lot.

What?!” Baldin bellowed, completely exasperated, “Fuck!!!”

Mickey sat up in the backseat, alarmed by Baldin’s end of the conversation, and fearing it had something to do with Ian.

“I’m on it! I got the other one,” he finally responded in an irritated tone of voice, after a brief lull on his end.

“What’s goin’ on!?” Mickey demanded frantically, now certain that something was up with Ian, though he couldn’t have imagined the reality.

“Just sit the fuck back and shut the fuck up...and hope we find your idiot husband alive!” Baldin hissed, “He’s even fucking dumber than you are!”

__________________________________

Dr. Lange pulled up in front of Ian and Mickey’s house, hoping to keep Ian calm until Baldin tracked Mickey down. She knew, as soon as she heard Mickey had left the base, that something was wrong. She also knew that, under the current high-stress circumstances, it wouldn’t take long for Ian to go off the deep end, if Mickey didn’t return pretty quickly. 

Before she could even get out of her car, her phone rang. She picked it up on the half-ring. “Sergei! Did you find him?” she asked hopefully, her voice quivering slightly as she spoke.

“Yeah, but the other one’s off base now, too!” Baldin growled, much to both Dr. Lange and Mickey’s horror. 

“How is that even possible?!” Dr. Lange screeched.

“If I knew that, I’d have his ass by now!” Baldin retorted, adding, “Any ideas? Deb? Mickey? I had a signal from his phone, but it has been spotty for about the last ten minutes.”

“Maybe he called an Uber?” Dr. Lange suggested. “You should be able to track that, right?” she asked nervously.

“Nope, no Uber. Yes, I would have been able to see that,” Baldin responded with a frustrated sigh. 

“I’m afraid I’m gonna have to get the guys from the Bureau involved, if this goes on much longer,” Baldin admitted with a frown, fully expecting the tongue-lashing Debra was about to give him, in addition to the one he would most certainly receive from his superior, for allowing her to influence his decision-making, regarding his handling of Ian and Mickey, to the detriment of the case. He was definitely caught between a rock and a hard place, both sides closing in fast. 

“Sergei! You’d be very foolish if you did that! You could put his competency to testify in question, not to mention the number his incarceration would do on Mickey!” Debra huffed judgmentally.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t be worried about that right now. My goal, first and foremost, is to get the prisoner back into custody,” Baldin spoke curtly. 

“Sergei...why...why are you calling him that?” Debra whined, a lump forming in her throat, as the reason dawned on her. Ian’s phone tracker was attached, not only to the network that the agents and attorneys from the A.G.’s Office were on, but also to the Federal Department of Corrections, since Ian was still technicially on the rolls as a convicted felon, serving out his sentence on house-arrest, rather than being held in a federal prison. He was protecting both himself and Debra, just in case their phone conversation was being surveilled, something that had happened to them in the past, causing them both quite a bit of trouble. 

As much as Debra hated to admit it, she knew that once Baldin made the decision to call the Bureau, it would only be a matter of time before Ian would be captured and sent to a maximum security federal prison to serve the remainder of his time. Perhaps his sentence would be commuted, upon the completion of the trial, but until then, since Ian had demonstrated his inability to act responsibly and to follow the rules, putting himself and their cover in jeopardy, his incarceration would be unavoidable. 

“How ‘bout I try ta call?” Mickey suggested.

“Well, of course you should! I assumed the two of you would have tried that already!” Dr. Lange scolded them.

And before another second passed, Mickey was on his phone, listening, counting the rings, wondering, on the surface, why the fuck Ian wasn’t answering, but realizing, deep down, that he was probably just paying him back for ignoring his calls earlier that evening.

“Okay if I send a text?” Mickey asked politely, although he was still pissed off about the way Baldin had spoken to him, and about Ian. Had circumstances been different, Mickey probably would have at least tried to kick his ass, but despite Baldin’s characterization of him, Mickey was smart enough to know that any such action would make a bad situation worse. He was well aware that the shit Ian was pulling---the shit he, himself, had pulled---had endangered their future, and he was sick about it. All he could do now was cooperate and hope Baldin would give them a break, if everything ended well.

“Nah...don’t do that! Too risky! Someone else could have his phone, at this point,” Baldin explained. 

“Nope! He’s just being a stubborn fuck! Trust me!” Mickey argued, hoping to persuade Baldin to allow the text. 

Before Baldin could put forth a second denial of Mickey’s request, Mickey’s phone buzzed. 

Mickey was so excited, he dropped his phone, scrambling to scoop it up from the backseat floor as it continued to buzz.

“Ian!” he panted anxiously, once he finally gained enough control over his phone and his quaking hands to answer.

“Hey, Mick…” Ian’s drunken, yet somehow soothing voice answered.

“Where the fuck are you?!” Mickey demanded, more scared than anything else, at this point.

“...was about to ask you the same question, Mick…” Ian slurred. 

Just then, Mickey heard a loud, sustained horn in the background.

“Ian! Are you in a fuckin’ car?!” Mickey questioned fearfully.

Ian sighed heavily, but gave no verbal answer.

“Ian, just tell whoever’s driving ta...ta let ya out...and I’ll come get ya,” Mickey pleaded, his mind bouncing from one unsavory possibility to another, a whole host of horrific scenes shuffling through his mind’s eye.

Still no response.

“Ian! Please!” Mickey begged, “I’m sorry! Just...we need to get ya home safe.”

“I’ll be there...soon,” Ian finally responded, “Gotta find somewhere to get gas.”

“What!?” Mickey exploded, “You’re...you’re drivin’?!”

“Yeah, Mick...but I just remembered...I don’t have any money,” Ian spoke slowly, his booze-muddled brain only recalling partial details of his hurried departure from the base.

“Fuck!” Mickey screeched, utterly distraught, hot tears filling his eyes and beginning to spill down his face.

“Oh...hey...I gotta go,” Ian muttered, ending the call before Mickey could say another word.

“Ian!!” Mickey screamed into the phone in vain, stopping short of a full-on tantrum only after hearing Baldin’s phone go off. He leaned over the front seat, reading the name ‘Deb’ on Baldin’s ringing phone.

Baldin reached blindly for his phone as he drove, somehow managing to find and answer it with relative ease, all while navigating the busy highway leading back in the direction of the base.

“Sergei...got him. Headed back,” Debra breathed, a genuine sense of relief evident in her voice. 

“Deb…” Baldin replied, catching her just as she was about to hang up, “You’re gonna have to take him to medical. I just can’t take a chance of this happening again. 

“No, Sergei! Please! Meet us at the house. There are some issues...We’ll figure it all out there,” Debra countered, attempting to buy some time.

“Deb...I’d really rather not…” Baldin declared warily.

“Please, Sergei!” Debra beseeched him, “If you ever loved me…”

“Shhh...stop! Okay...I’ll come there, but then…”

Debra ended the call in the middle of his sentence, figuring she would have a better chance of influencing his decision in person. But first, she had to deal with Ian’s latest and greatest fuck-up.  
_____________________________

“It’s the...that green car!” Ian sniffed, pointing at the vehicle whose front end was kissing a telephone pole about fifty feet down the road from where Deb had found him, teetering back and forth between his good leg and the one that was now practically useless. 

She somehow managed to corral his wasted ass, shoving him awkwardly into the passenger’s seat of her car. “Who’s car is it?!” She questioned him, doing her best to hide her dismay.

“Miranda...my neighbor…” Ian blubbered, suddenly realizing that she and, very likely, her husband would soon find out he’d wrecked her car came crashing down on him. 

“Okay...okay…” Dr. Lange comforted him, wrapping her right arm around him as she navigated her car back out onto the road, bypassing the vehicle Ian had abandoned. 

“Do you have her phone number? We need to get in touch with her before the police arrive. And do you have the keys to the car? Did you leave anything in it?” she continued, firing questions at Ian way faster than he could respond, in his current state. 

Debra reached for Ian’s phone in frustration, scrolling through his calls as she sat at the red light about a mile from the main gate at Quantico. She was hoping to find Miranda’s phone number, although she knew that, if she did, it would mean Ian had violated the terms of use he had agreed to, upon receiving the phone from the feds. 

“Is this her number?” she asked hopefully, holding his phone out in front of him. 

“No...I don’t have her number,” Ian frowned.

“Well, whose number is this then?! This isn’t a familiar area code. Definitely not D.C., Virginia or Maryland...And you talked to this person for 32 minutes! Who is it?”

Ian’s heart was in his throat, his pulse pounding through his whole body as he contemplated how to answer, Debra’s pointed interrogation definitely having a sobering effect.

“Uh...my sister...Fiona,” Ian fessed up.

“Well, Ian, just when I think things couldn’t get any worse…” Debra sighed in frustration as the light changed. She gunned the engine, her car taking off like a rocket, arriving at Quantico’s gate in record time. 

“Jesus!” Ian exclaimed, a bit taken aback, but happy, nonetheless, to comment on her lead foot, rather than field any more of her questions.

“Address,” Debra barked impatiently, after showing both of their IDs to the gate guard and proceeding onto the base.

“I...I think it’s 625. It’s...it’s at the end of our block,” Ian stammered nervously. He knew Dr. Lange was pissed, but even worse than that, he knew the source of her anger was the feeling of powerlessness she had. They both understood that his future, and Mickey’s, by association, were now largely at the mercy of Baldin and the federal government. Either Baldin, the Director of the Federal Prison System, or some combination of the two would determine the consequences of Ian’s irresponsible actions. And the car accident only complicated things further.

Debra pulled up in front of the house, Mickey rushing out before the car even came to a full stop. As he approached the car, the passenger-side door opened slowly, allowing Mickey an identifying glimpse of Ian, the sight of his unnaturally light hair and unmistakable pale, freckled skin bringing instant relief to the nausea and spasming knots that had wreaked havoc on Mickey’s stomach from the moment he learned that Ian was missing.

“...the fuck’d ya get a car?! And where the hell is it?!” Mickey hollered to Ian as he rushed to his aid, lifting him out of the car and throwing him over his shoulder, as had become his habit over the past month since they’d been back together. Ian stayed quiet, choosing not to divulge the details of his folly while Mickey held him in such a vulnerable position.

Dr. Lange followed them into the house uneasily, dreading her impending conversation with Baldin, as well as the confrontation she anticipated with the owner of the smacked-up car she and Ian had left on the highway.

“Sergei, I need to talk with you for a moment...in private,” Debra spoke in an official tone, though there was an undercurrent in the delivery of her last two words that sent Mickey’s eyebrows arching nearly to his hairline in an instant.

Baldin took her by the arm roughly, pulling her into the spare bedroom and shutting the door behind them with sufficient force to rattle the other doors in the house.

“Fuck!” Ian exclaimed as Mickey made a beeline for their bedroom, matching the volume of Baldin’s door slam with one of his own, before tossing Ian unceremoniously onto the bed.

Ian’s eyes welled up with tears. He knew he’d really fucked up, and wondered now much Mickey knew. “I’m sorry, Mick…” he breathed, choking back the sobs that were threatening their escape, the painful lump in his throat seeming to stymee them for the time being.

Mickey wiped furiously at the perpetually regenerating stream of tears that trailed down his husband’s face, finally opting to pull him in for a deep kiss, one that expressed more than words ever could. Ian, overwhelmed by Mickey’s expression of unconditional love, relaxed into Mickey’s arms and let go, Mickey holding him securely to his chest, allowing him to decompress, tabling his questions until Ian was calm enough to speak again.

“Mickey, I…” Ian began, his voice filled with regret as he mulled over the evening’s events, the wrecked car, his call to Fiona, Dr. Lange’s obvious frustration with him.

“Shhh…I’m sorry, too,” Mickey comforted him in the tiniest whisper, rubbing the pads of his fingertips lightly against Ian’s blonde, fuzz-covered temples. It was a rare occurrence for Mickey to be this soft, this tender, but when it happened, Ian found Mickey even more irresistible than usual. 

Now Ian didn’t dare divulge any of his wrongdoing, for fear of pissing Mickey off and losing out on what, in his mind, might be his last opportunity for quite a while to bond with his lovely husband in the most intimate and pleasurable of ways.

“Mick...please…” Ian breathed, cupping Mickey’s cheeks in his trembling hands as he drew their faces together, “I want you.” 

Ian cocked his head to the side, pressing his lips lightly to Mickey’s, then parting them gently with his tongue, his right hand traveling haltingly down over Mickey’s Adam’s Apple, tracing his clavicles softly with his index finger, then making its way to his chest and over his muscled abs, finally reaching the waistband of his sweats, where he stopped to tease Mickey, dipping the occasional finger beneath the band to stroke the tip of Mickey’s rapidly swelling cock. 

Mickey moaned into Ian’s mouth as Ian’s hand expertly made its way beneath, caressing Mickey’s manhood with his soft fingertips, still denying him the consistent pressure he craved.

“You want me, too?” Ian asked with a giggle, though it was more of a statement than a question.

Mickey flipped over onto Ian forcefully, straddling his hips and holding him to the bed by his wrists as he grinded himself mercilessly on Ian like a sex-starved animal. “What do you think?” he panted breathlessly, his piercing blue eyes burning into Ian’s with molten desire. 

“Think I wanna fuck the hell outta you tonight...so you know who you belong to tomorrow, while you’re sitting in that courtroom,” Ian hissed, wrestling himself free of Mickey’s grasp with enough strength to turn the tables on Mickey, manhandling him into a sideways position and wrapping his good leg around both of Mickey’s.

“But what about…” Mickey began, pointing toward the door.

“Now you KNOW what’s up with them. I saw the look on your face…” Ian muttered with a smirk, proceeding to tear Mickey’s sweats down over his asscheeks with one hand, while reaching for a tube of lube with the other. 

“Now gimme that fine ass of yours!” he growled into Mickey’s ear, sending electrical currents of excitement through Mickey’s entire body. 

“Yes, sir,” Mickey answered obediently, lowering his pants to fully expose what, to Ian, was the most exquisite ass on the planet.

_________________________________

“Oh fuck yeah!” Debra and Sergei heard Ian all but scream ecstatically as they stepped out into the hallway between the two bedrooms. 

They had discussed the whole car predicament, Debra opting not to share Ian’s phone call to Fiona just yet. After some debate, they made a plan to accompany Ian to Miranda’s house, basically to lie their asses off about the circumstances behind her missing car. Sergei had arranged to have a rental car delivered within the hour, and he already had a call in to have both her vehicle and Mickey’s towed to the federal lot, where hers would be repaired and his would sit, pending the final decision the feds were to make, concerning his continued use of it.

Time was of the essence, with regard to informing Miranda about her car. She had to give permission, before it could be towed, and the tow truck needed to be there before the police, in order to avoid any type of investigation. Sergei approached Ian and Mickey’s bedroom door and was poised to knock, then give the order for Ian to get his ass out there, when Debra pulled him backward, turning him in her direction and locking eyes with him.

“Listen…” she whispered, the undeniably stimulating sounds of the couple’s pleasure wafting forth from behind the closed door.

“Just...don’t…” she pleaded, licking her lips seductively, blinking slowly and averting her eyes intermittently, instantly taking on the look of a shy schoolgirl as she backed herself up against the wall. She cast her eyes downward, feigning shame of her obvious, palpable excitement, allowing one devilish hand to trail its way down her body, threatening to lift her own skirt. 

“...Fuck…” Sergei breathed, inextricably ensnared in her charms. He grabbed her by the waist, pinned her to the wall, then hiked her skirt up to her waist, pushing the crotch of her panties to the side, then proceeding to drop his own pants to his knees and fuck her hard, her head bouncing wildly off the wall as he pounded into her, their bodies reacting magnificently to one another, obviously not strangers or novices, but rather amply practiced, impeccably suited partners. 

Both climaxed quickly, Debra first, screaming Sergei’s name rapturously multiple times, her delirious squeals interspersing with Mickey and Ian’s grunts, groans and yelps of pleasure to send Sergei over the edge immediately thereafter. 

Sergei leaned against the wall, his legs weak and wobbly, taking a moment to catch his breath, marveling at the beautiful creature he had just ridden to the moon and back, then listening at the troublesome couple’s door again momentarily, before walking out to the living room. Ian and Mickey were clearly still going at it, much to his displeasure. Selling this whole bullshit story was going to be more difficult without Ian, but they really needed to do this, sooner than later, and he knew Debra would have a fit if he disturbed them.

“Alright...guess I’m doing this alone,” he sighed in resignation as he headed for the door.

“Wait!” Deb called to him, “I’m going with you.”


	57. Secrets

“I think I should go by myself! I have this! What if this guy sees you at some point later, here on base, with your federal ID?” Debra asserted.

“And what if he sees YOU?” Baldin countered, shaking his head dismissively.

“You know this is an unusual situation for me,” she argued back, crossing her arms in what Baldin referred to as her ‘battle stance’.

“I’m talking to them! And that’s the end of it! You wanna come with me---FINE!” Baldin retorted, doing his best not to get himself too riled up before going to address the issue of the wrecked car with Ian and Mickey’s new neighbors. 

“And, for the record, I think it’s Ian who should be coming with me,” Baldin continued, lowering his voice as he approached Miranda and Marcus’ house, Debra doing her best to keep up, “But I know---It’s more important for him to get his rocks off, after being a total asshole...He should be in fucking prison!”

“Sergei! How can you say that, after all he’s been through?! First of all, he has a mental illness! And the guy can’t even walk, thanks to the lax ‘security’ at Stateville, not to mention the fact that he was forced to do the unthinkable for that smile-ball, Burman! And he almost lost Mickey...I just...I just can’t with you anymore on this!” Debra shouted back at him, shooting him an evil glare as she scurried ahead of him, up the sidewalk to Miranda and Marcus’ door. 

“Okay...okay...so we’re Mickey’s aunt and uncle?” Baldin asked, breathing heavily as he jogged to catch up to Debra, who was less than ten feet from the house.

She nodded, continuing her approach, then stretching her arm and index finger straight out to ring the doorbell. Sergei glanced over at her nervously, clearing his throat just before the door swung open. “Lieutenant Lange?” a young man in camis addressed Debra, a surprised and puzzled look on his face, and hers as well.

“Petty Officer Pilsen! From Bethesda!” Debra exclaimed, recovering quickly from the initial shock of having been identified, and even managing a bright, enthusiastic smile, “It’s been a long time!”

“Yes, ma’am, it has. And to what do we owe the honor of your presence?” he asked.

“Well, technically,” she began, lowering her voice to a near whisper, “I’m not at liberty to give details...But since the current situation involves you, I can give you some general information.”

“General information about what, Ma’am?” he asked, his wife, Miranda, joining him in the doorway, their baby son in her arms.

“It’s about your car,” Sergei interjected awkwardly, “And the man who borrowed it.”

“Oh my God! Is Ian okay?” Miranda asked, her panicked voice giving rise to a new level of concern in her husband.

“Yes, he’s fine, but…” Debra answered, pausing to find the right words.

“I need you to give verbal permission for your car to be towed, and…” Sergei cut in, Marcus interrupting him before he could finish his sentence.

“What happened to the car?” Marcus asked, trying to remain calm, his rapidly reddening face betraying him. 

“Ian...uh...Corporal Belle had an accident. The U.S. Government will take care of the cost for repair...and provide you with a rental car. I apologize for the inconvenience,” Baldin shared quickly, hoping not to be interrupted a second time. “We just need your verbal permission, like I said before,” Baldin finished. 

“That’s fine,” Miranda responded, looking over apologetically at her husband, then adding, “I’m sorry, honey. He was a Marine in need...and I know how you feel…”

“Okay,” Marcus agreed, “But I still don’t understand why YOU’RE here, Lt. Lange,” Marcus commented, obviously bewildered.

“Well, as I said, I can’t give details, but Corporal Belle...he went through something pretty terrible when he was away...so…” Debra explained in as vague of terms as possible, the baby’s sudden discontent saving her from Marcus’ next line of questions. 

“Sorry. I see you’re busy…” Baldin began, “So let’s just get this call made. I can have a car here for you in under an hour.”

And in no time flat, all of the arrangements were made, Debra and Sergei finding themselves on their way back to Mickey and Ian’s house. 

“That was a close one!” Debra laughed as they approached the front door of Mickey and Ian’s place. 

“Yeah…” Baldin replied absently, deep in thought over the whole scenario, the chances they had taken and continued to take, the fact that he was sure to be questioned, regarding Ian’s whereabouts for the time period that his phone had registered him as being off base, all of it. In fact, he had noticed, upon making the necessary calls to rectify the car situation, that he had missed several calls, half a dozen from Petrov, and one from the federal prison’s automated system. He had no idea how to address the latter call, but he knew he had to figure it out---and fast.

“There’s one more thing I need to tell you, Sergei,” Debra piped up, jarring him from his heavy thoughts.

“Please, Deb, I can’t handle any more right now! I have to get all this shit squared away. I might still have to deliver Ian to prison tonight. I have to call them back. I’m planning to tell them it was a misunderstanding, but if they don’t buy it, he has to go in,” he explained, absolutely frazzled and hoping to avoid an all-out screaming match with Debra.

 

“And Medical isn’t an option!?” Debra wailed, clearly distraught over the prospect of Ian going back to prison, under any circumstances.

“You said yourself, that could jeopardize the court’s view of his competency, so no, it’s not an option!” he spoke authoritatively. “Just go ahead in and deal with them. I have to make this call.”  
_____________________________________

“That fuckhead hasn’t taken any of my calls! And the A.G. is gonna tell the judge tomorrow that T’s survival is very unlikely. He’ll ask for a medical opinion, which I’m sure Dr. Lange or one of her associates will provide. I just really didn’t want Teresa to hear it this way. I need Baldin to fucking call me, damnit!” Petrov vented to Sonny, who, along with Yuri and Teresa, had been holed up in a seedy motel in Anacostia for nearly a week.

“Why not just tell her then?” Sonny asked. 

“Yeah, do you need his permission?” Yuri chimed in.

“I don’t know. He said we would talk about it, but he didn’t call back...and he’s not answering,” Petrov fumed, becoming more frustrated, the longer he thought about it.

“Fuck! I just wish…” Petrov stopped mid-sentence, opting to keep his disturbing thoughts to himself.

“Look...anyone can see how much you care for her,” Sonny began, Petrov cutting him off.

“That’s got nothing to do with…” Petrov raised his voice in protest, pausing as a knock came at the door connecting his room to the one beside it.

“Can I come in?” Teresa called through the door, amid stifled sobs. 

“Sure,” Petrov answered, rushing to open the door, his heart dropping into his stomach as her distress registered with him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately, upon seeing her red, teary eyes and swollen nose, reaching for her instinctively. 

Teresa fell into his arms, crying so hard, she was gasping for air. Petrov stood, motionless and silent, comforting her in a warm embrace, appearing deceptively calm from all outward appearances, but on the inside, his mind and heart were racing. He could feel her body trembling as he awaited her reply, although he felt he knew, in his heart of hearts, what she must be about to share. “You wished for this!” he thought guiltily, blaming himself already.

“I’m pregnant,” she murmured into his sturdy chest, her shocking announcement muffled and barely audible. 

Petrov’s stomach contracted involuntarily, an overwhelming feeling of suffocating nausea churning inside him, as he fought to contain his body’s reflexive urge to retch. His legs bowed and wavered like rubber, as he struggled to remain standing long enough to extricate himself from Teresa, who clung to him desperately as she continued to unravel. 

“I’m sorry…” he muttered hurriedly as he turned, running for the bathroom. 

And before Sonny, in his failed attempt to pinch-hit for Petrov, could get to her, Teresa turned away, disappearing into the adjacent room and slamming the door behind her. Sonny could still hear her wailing, over the equally unpleasant sounds of Petrov’s gagging and vomiting. 

“Teresa...open up,” Sonny spoke sympathetically through the closed door. “He’s sick...that’s all...He’s...he’s been very ill all morning,” he continued, spinning his fictitious account as he went, hoping to convince her that Petrov’s sudden flight to the toilet had nothing to do with her.

“It’s okay, Sonny. I’ll be fine…” Teresa finally responded, her voice thick, nasal and hoarse.

Sonny wanted so badly to say or do something to comfort her, but he couldn’t think of a single thing. He approached the bathroom door reluctantly, speaking, instead, to Petrov, once he became quiet, “You okay? Need anything?”

“Nope...I’m fine...I have to tell her. Especially now,” he responded, opening the bathroom door and slowly making his way out.

“What?!” Sonny asked incredulously, shocked at the timing of Petrov’s sudden decisiveness, and quite curious as to exactly what it was that he planned to share. Would he tell her the real story, or the lie T had requested him to pass off as the truth? 

“Just...I’ll handle this. No need for any further discussion,” Petrov answered sternly, oddly resolute, given the situation.

Petrov filled a glass with water, gulping it down hastily, then headed for the door through which Teresa had made her escape.

Just as he stood before the door, prepared to knock and apologize for his sudden trip to the bathroom, his phone buzzed.

“Who is it?” Sonny asked nervously.

“Baldin,” Petrov said quietly, moving away from the door quickly and taking a seat on the rickety, old bed he and Yuri had shared for the past several nights, before taking the call.

“Yeah,” he answered in little more than a whisper, anticipating a discussion about T’s status and how to broach the subject of his ‘death’ with Teresa.

“Need your take on something,” Baldin said in a low voice, almost under his breath.

“Okay…” Petrov responded, completely at a loss as to why Baldin could possibly need his advice or guidance, “I’m listening…”

“Not over the phone!” Baldin objected. “I’ll be over. Just have to make a quick pit stop,” he explained.

“I’ll be here,” Petrov assured him with a half-chuckle before ending the call, filling his water glass for a second time, then shrugging his shoulders in response to the non-verbal question on Sonny’s face. 

Petrov paced back and forth, wishing he could go back in time, that he could have done things differently---let Teresa know how he felt sooner, maybe not have made it so easy for her to visit T so often, or perhaps just never have asked her for a favor in the first place, kept their relationship strictly professional, instead of falling in love with her.  
__________________________

Ian pressed Mickey’s hand forcefully to the mattress with his own, each man caught up in his own ultimate dream come true, the magical rhythm of their union bringing them both closer and closer to their inevitable, incomparable climax, their bodies so in tune with one another that each could most certainly predict the other’s explosion with nanosecond accuracy. Ian could feel Mickey’s pleasure building exponentially with his every thrust, Ian, the potent, premium gasoline, stoking Mickey’s ever-burgeoning fire to new and incredible heights. 

He had been taking his time, despite his earlier threats, making sweet, passionate love to the only man who had ever held his heart, the one who’s soul spoke to him in his darkest of hours, the husband who made even the most wretched life worth living. He reluctantly untangled his hand from Mickey’s, trailing it down Mickey’s sexy midline and bringing it to rest briefly atop Mickey’s raging hard-on, before beginning to massage it masterfully, in anticipation of what he was sure would be Mickey’s imminent release.

“Gettin’ real close, Ian…” Mickey breathed ecstatically, as Ian continued to rock expertly into his ‘little spoon’, pulling one ragged moan after another from Mickey’s quivering lips.

“Oh fuck yeah!” Mickey squealed suddenly, on the brink of an incredibly fulfilling orgasm, courtesy of his well-endowed, tremendously skilled and attentive lover.

“Wait!” Ian hissed into Mickey’s ear, pulling his hand away from Mickey’s throbbing, leaking cock at the most inopportune of times.

“What da fuck!?” Mickey growled in frustrated annoyance.

Ian continued to finesse himself adeptly in and out of his man, pegging his sweet spot intermittently, as he composed an acceptable answer to Mickey’s justifiably angry inquiry.

“Need you to promise me something first,” Ian breathed, the throaty rasp in Ian’s voice signaling to Mickey that Ian, too, was about ready to erupt. 

Ian added a light fondling of Mickey’s balls, and the occasional brush of his fingertips over the entirety of Mickey’s beautifully thick cock, into his repertoire. He had hit his stride, and was positively edging the FUCK out of him now. He had Mickey right where he wanted him—-so fucking horny and frustrated that he’d agree to absolutely ANYTHING.

“Yeah...okay...whatever…Please!” Mickey whimpered with a note of desperation in his voice that spoke to Ian on such a base, carnal level, it nearly made him cum on the spot.

“Seriously, Mick,” Ian all but begged. “You gotta promise not to get mad at me again... no matter what!” Ian finished, hastening his pace ever so slightly as he saw Mickey nod his agreement, acquiescing solely for the purpose of ensuring that Ian bring to fruition the most ungodly sexual gratification he knew Ian could deliver, but was so deliberately withholding, pending Mickey’s response.

“Say it!” Ian demanded harshly, sucking fervently on Mickey’s exquisitely sweet neck as he, once again, slowed his below-the-waist efforts.

“I fuckin’ promise!” Mickey screeched, rutting himself backward against Ian’s punishingly prominent hip-bones, grunting, howling and biting the hell out of his own lip as Ian pulled out all the stops, licking, biting, stroking, and fucking Mickey into oblivion.

“Ian...so fuckin' good! Yeah, man...Fuck me...” Mickey panted deliriously as he literally detonated, spewing his seed over Ian’s fist and beyond, his body convulsing erratically, his bouncing buttocks and wickedly tight ass bringing Ian right along with him.

“Mick...I fucking love you…” Ian confessed through gritted teeth as he rode out his own climax, uncharacteristically bursting into tears as his beautifully swollen lips repetitively formed Mickey’s name.

As their bodies stilled, Ian pulled Mickey close, reveling in their moment of peaceful satiety, taking in Mickey’s intoxicating scent and holding his breath for as long as he could, his soul swimming in Mickey’s essence, his brain dizzy with love for his man, and fear of losing him...again.

At long last, Ian exhaled, his mind crashing back down to reality, forcing him to break their blissful silence, “Mick...I gotta tell you some stuff...and you can’t forget your promise, okay?”

Mickey drew in a deep breath, allowing it to escape gradually from between his teeth as he contemplated the possibilities. “Look at me,” Mickey sighed, flipping over to face Ian.

Ian’s frightened eyes fluttered open, staring into Mickey’s---two placid, love-filled oceans of patience and understanding that spoke to him, without Mickey needing to say a word. Mickey brushed the tattooed knuckles of his hand softly over Ian’s cheek, “I love you, too. And whatever it is, Ian, we’ll fuckin’ deal with it. We always do.”


	58. Wake-Up Call

Teresa lay in a heap at the bottom of her bed, where she had collapsed and remained, following Baldin’s visit. She’d cried until she could no longer breathe through her nose, and then she cried some more, her mouth gaping as her chest heaved, her body doing its best to keep her oxygenated, in spite of itself.

Petrov had asked that Baldiin break the news, but also insisted that Teresa be given the option to have him present, to which she reluctantly agreed. Baldin excused himself pretty much immediately afterward, setting in motion the steps necessary, as Petrov had advised him, to handle the predicament Ian had put him in, which effectively left Petrov alone with Teresa to deal with the aftermath of the bombshell Baldwin had dropped. 

Petrov did his best to console her, though his efforts went largely unnoticed, her mental state too fragile to even acknowledge his presence. And it wasn’t long after, that she tearfully asked him to leave, before he could offer to help, or share his willingness to be anything she wanted, anything she needed, literally anything at all, just to be part of her life for the long haul. 

Not that any of that would have mattered. She couldn’t be around anyone, and she certainly wasn’t ready to think about the baby, her future, or even the trial, all of which had loomed large in her mind, but were instantly dwarfed by the reality that T was gone, and not just until he recovered, as had been the case so many times in the past, but forever. The man who had toughed it out through more pain and misery than anyone should ever have to endure, who had bravely confessed his love to her when she was too afraid to admit her own, who was the only silver lining to this otherwise terrifying ordeal that had become her life---gone. 

_________________________________

Debra was awake at the crack of dawn, showering, drying her hair and caking on makeup, pulling out all the stops to make herself presentable, despite what she saw as obvious and profound exhaustion, as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She had endured a restless night of tossing and turning, anticipating Sergei’s possible arrival, though she hadn’t heard from him since his hasty departure the night before. It wasn’t like him to stay incommunicado for so long, especially under these circumstances, although she had to admit, they had never encountered a situation quite like this before, and she was really beginning to worry. 

And to make matters worse, she had gotten a late start to her intermittent slumber, having refereed a pretty fierce argument between Ian and Mickey, regarding Ian’s recent shenanigans. Mickey had become particularly enraged over Ian’s foolish decision to contact Fiona, and while Debra believed Mickey’s upset was understandable, she defended Ian, to a degree, once he explained that Mickey had made a promise, prior to Ian’s sharing of the whole Fiona story, not to get mad, no matter what.

This, to Debra, was a promise to be honored, the type she’d made Sergei swear to in the past, under some pretty ugly circumstances. In fact, she had to hold back her laughter, at one point, upon realizing that Mickey had likely agreed to those terms under the same ‘duress’ Sergei had, when he made his promises. 

Although Mickey had been her patient first, Ian was someone she could identify with on a personal level. How he handled himself---his impulsivity, his unpredictability, the way he led with his heart and let the chips fall where they may---all reminded her of herself, particularly with regard to her interaction with Sergei. And Mickey, for his part, shared many of Sergei’s traits, which helped her to understand him readily. She could definitely relate to the relationship dynamics between Ian and Mickey, seeing so much of herself and Sergei in them.

The parallels seemed endless, each couple weathering periods of separation, both forced and voluntary, as well as dangerous or risky reunions that broke the rules and put them in peril.The main difference was that Mickey and Ian had made a lifetime commitment, one that involved great sacrifices, particularly for Ian. 

She understood what Ian had signed up for, and she admired his decision to put Mickey and their future together above all else. She also recognized, however, all that Mickey had willingly given up, including his freedom and safety, in order to be with Ian again in the first place. She felt this was particularly ballsy, since Mickey, no doubt, had at least some question in his mind, initially, as to whether Ian still felt the same way about him. After all, a significant amount of time had elapsed since their previous reunion, and it had ended terribly, with Ian opting, at the last minute, to bid farewell to Mickey at the border crossing and return to Chicago, leaving Mickey to fend for himself in Mexico, his safe passage to which was uncertain, at best.

She pushed the whole scenario out of her head as she reached for her buzzing phone, hoping to spare herself the tears she could feel coming, sorrow and helplessness over their situation, and her own, driving her ever closer to an emotional breakdown.

“Transport van en route,” read Sergei’s first text, followed, rapid-fire, by a second, “I will arrive shortly thereafter to handle the other situation.”

'Situation?' she thought to herself. Ian was so much more than a ‘situation’ to her. Her first inclination was to correct his verbiage, but then she thought better of it, concerning herself more with the lack of detail he had provided. 

'Surely, he wouldn’t be coming to remove Ian. To take him to prison. That would definitely have been done the night before,' she told herself. And was she expected to ride in the transport van with Mickey, despite the fact that she had her own personal vehicle there? No matter the scenario, one thing was certain; Mickey needed to get up and ready.

“Mickey!” she called through their bedroom door as she knocked loudly. Mickey’s body recoiled involuntarily from Ian’s embrace, the combination of abrasive, unexpected noises clearly startling, if not outright frightening him. 

“Mick…” Ian muttered sleepily, pulling his husband closer, only vaguely aware of anything other than Mickey’s sudden, unsettled movements. No sooner had Ian lulled Mickey into a sense of protected half-relaxation, than Debra’s shrill voice accompanied a still louder rapping on their bedroom door.

“Mickey! They’ll be here in about ten minutes!” she informed sternly.

“Not going!” Mickey yelled back, pressing his back and buttocks against Ian’s warm, comforting form in protest.

“We gotta go, Mick!” Ian piped up, pushing himself backward and away from Mickey, the increased volume of his voice, combined with his disruption of Mickey’s ‘cocoon’ serving to shake him loose.

Debra, upon hearing Ian’s urging, backed away from the door, choosing not to address the fact that only Mickey would be going, at least until after Ian assisted in getting Mickey’s defiant ass motivated.

Ian coaxed Mickey to his feet, egging him on with a promise to wash his back, as he hoisted himself from the bed, using his cane, then somehow managing to push Mickey out the door, in the direction of the bathroom. Deb looked on from her perch by the window, which gave her the opportunity to keep an eye on the lovebirds, while also watching for the van. She needed Mickey to get his ass in gear, but feared that another reminder would only piss him off and slow any progress he may have managed to make, at Ian’s request.

Much to her surprise, Sergei arrived before the van, the newlyweds having yet to show themselves, since Ian had guided Mickey into the bathroom. She could hear that the shower was still running, so she decided to distract Sergei as best she could, hoping to avoid any type of confrontation.

“Good Morning, Sergei!” Debra called to him in a sing-song voice, turning to face him as he entered the front door, striding briskly toward the rear of the house.

“...Morning…” he barely grunted in response, his focus fixed entirely on locating Mickey and, more importantly, Ian. 

“Sergei!” she repeated with less enthusiasm, but more urgency, “Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?!” she demanded, her full, crimson-painted lips pursed in disapproval.

“You and Mickey are going to court. That’s all I know for sure. I’m waiting for a call. Is he ready?” Sergei replied in a gruff, all-business voice that Debra knew all too well.

“They should be out soon,” she replied softly, forcing a perfunctory smile, then heading directly for the bathroom door. She thought it better that she hasten their efforts, than for Sergei to begin hollering, as she knew, from experience, that he would. She imagined the way the two might react to a harsh, unexpected, male voice, given their life experiences, and didn’t want that inflicted upon either of them, especially under the prevailing circumstances, the details of which were still unknown to her.

As she approached the door, she could hear the soft murmurings of two people who were quite obviously in love. “Mick, I love you...and I’m sorry. You’re my whole fucking world---it’s just...when you left...I was afraid...and…” Ian confessed, trying like hell to provide a logical reason for all the crazy shit he’d pulled the night before.

“Ian, I’m sorry I took off, man...I just didn’t wanna...you know...I don’t wanna fight anymore. Don’t wanna hurt ya anymore than ya been hurt,” Mickey mumbled, his last few words muffled by what Debra imagined must have been Ian’s mouth, based on what she heard after that. 

As Debra heard what she deemed to be, at the least, a full-body make-out session, accompanied by a changing water spatter pattern in the shower, she began to think they might have been overestimating the time they had, so she reluctantly raised her fist to knock, choosing to first call in softly, “Mickey! Almost ready? Sergei’s here, too.”  
______________________

“Fuck! Sorry, man,” Ian breathed in annoyance, pulling his soap-slathered hand off Mickey’s nearly bursting cock as Mickey backed away, helping Ian to lean on him, rather than the shower wall that Mickey had smashed him up against in the throes of passion. Ian wanted so badly to finish him, but understood it was impossible, now that Mickey knew Dr. Lange was on the other side of the door. In fact, if he’d had his way, which would have required a fully-healed leg, he’d have gotten on his knees and sucked Mickey off, taking the opportunity to finger-fuck him in the ass while he was at it. It all would have been over in a matter of minutes, and his husband would have been smiling all day. Unfortunately, the temporary limitations, brought on by the condition of Ian’s leg, took shower blowjobs off the menu, and now Mickey had blue balls and an attitude. 

Amid all of this, there was a pounding on the door, followed by Dr. Lange’s irritating voice, “Did you hear me?”

“Yes! I fuckin’ heard you!” Mickey thundered, lifting a soaking wet Ian into his arms to hasten their exit from the shower, “Now step the fuck away! I’m bringin’ him out! And we ain’t fuckin’ dressed!”

Mickey listened as the click of her high-heels became more faint, then pushed the door open and proceeded to their bedroom. “Gonna be undressin’ your ass with my eyes all day in that fuckin’ courtroom,” he breathed heavily, as he towel-dried Ian from head to toe, taking special care to be gentle with his leg and the prize between his thighs.

“Same,” Ian sighed with a grin, pulling Mickey in for a searing kiss that mirrored Mickey’s sentiments better than any words Ian could say.

“Mickey, the van’s here! We gotta go!” Dr. Lange warned, Sergei rolling his eyes and clearing his throat in silent frustration. He felt his ire rising up inside him, but still retained sufficient control and understanding to keep a lid on it. He knew any outburst coming from him would be counterproductive, so he sat motionless on the couch, hoping like hell that Debra could make this happen.

“Ian ain’t ready yet! I’m helpin’ him!” Mickey yelled in response.

And that was it! Something inside Baldin just snapped, “You didn’t fucking tell them?!” he screamed, loud enough that Mickey, Ian, and probably the van driver heard.

“Tell us what?!” Mickey shouted back, bursting through the bedroom door, fully prepared to defend his doctor, and his husband, if necessary.

“Get the fuck in the van! Both of you!” Baldin howled, glaring first at Mickey, then Debra, his face bright red, the veins in his neck bulging, his fists balled up in absolute fury, adding, “He’s not fucking going with you!! He’s going with me!!” as he pointed at Ian, who had just popped his head out the door of their bedroom.

“...the fuck’d you just say?!” Mickey growled, aggressively running up on Baldin.

“Mickey!” Dr. Lange pleaded, “Let’s just go!” motioning toward the door. 

“No fuckin’ way!! I ain’t leavin’ here without Ian!” Mickey hissed venomously through gritted teeth as he got even further into Baldin’s face.

“Listen, you sawed-off piece of shit,” Baldin raged, resisting the powerful urge to lay hands on Mickey. 

“Don’t speak to him that way!” Debra chided Sergei, a genuinely pained look on her face, “C’mon, Mickey,” she practically begged, grasping him by the hand in desperation and pulling him toward the door. 

Mickey shook himself free of Debra’s grasp, turning to grab Baldin by the shirt. “Fuck you!” Mickey bellowed, shoving him backward, Baldin staggering to regain his balance, then rearing back and curling his fist in anticipation of landing a punch to Mickey’s face.

“Sergei, don’t! They’ll question his credibility if he looks like he’s been in a brawl! You know that!” Debra admonished, appealing to him on a professional level, though, at the moment, she was embarrassed by his street-thug behavior.

“You better get your white-trash, hoodrat ass in that van...or I’ll make sure HIS goes to fucking prison!” Baldin threatened, gesturing again in Ian’s direction. Mickey took one look at his stunningly beautiful, innocent-looking husband, then bowed his head submissively, turning to follow Dr. Lange out the door to the van.

“Mick! Wait!” Ian called to him as he fought his own body to move more quickly than it would allow, even with the aid of his new cane.

“Let him go! Or I swear, you’ll never see him again!” Baldin snarled at Ian.

“I...I just want you to know... that no matter what happens...where I end up, I’ll be back for you...no matter what!” Ian called to Mickey as Dr. Lange pulled the door closed behind them. “Did you hear me?! Mickey!!” Ian wailed. 

“I hear ya, Ian,” Mickey breathed, though he was well outside of Ian’s earshot, his throat too thick to speak with any real volume, as he followed Dr. Lange down the sidewalk to the van, fighting back the deluge of tears that threatened to fall as he thought of a life without Ian...again.


	59. Courtroom Confessions

“Let’s go!” Baldin yelled, becoming more irritated by the minute with what he deemed to be Ian’s stall tactics. 

“Just putting some shoes on,” Ian replied politely as he finished slipping on his second loafer, after which he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, leaning heavily on his cane, a pain-filled grimace on his face.

Baldin rolled his eyes, moving briskly toward the front door and holding it open impatiently as he watched Ian struggle, in his failed attempt to catch up to him. 

“Come on! I don’t have all day!” Baldin snapped, glancing quickly at his phone as it buzzed. It was a forwarded text message from the Federal Bureau of Prisons, courtesy of Agent Todd, who had been reassigned, following the witness group’s departure from holding, but was apparently still receiving the automated correspondence regarding Ian’s recent ‘out of range’ status.

It read, “Mandatory: P.O./Handler and Prisoner - Report to FCI, Petersburg on or before 1300 hours.”

“Goddamnit! Get in the fucking car!” Baldin barked, shoving Ian into the passenger-side of his economy-sized car and throwing his cane in the backseat.

“Where...where are we going?” Ian stuttered nervously.

“Well, it appears that we have to go to Petersburg, but first, I’m taking your ass to Medical! Now shut the fuck up! You’ll be damn lucky if I can get any of us out of this collossal cluster-fuck you’ve brought on. And if I go down over this shit, you’re damn well going down with me!” Baldin hissed angrily.

While Ian certainly had created problems, Baldin, about 20 minutes into their trip, began to realize that much of his rage was misdirected. In truth, he, himself,was ultimately responsible for the implementation of the plan that had led up to their current predicament. He also felt that Debra was a large part of the problem, for having suggested that Ian could be trusted with so much freedom, though he understood that he, himself, had the veto power to put the kibosh on the whole thing, but didn’t, against his own better judgment. 

There truly seemed to be no end to the complications he was being forced to handle, and all because he found Debra irresistible, intellectually, spiritually, sexually—-completely. He had let his own personal feelings get in the way of his professional decision-making, submitting to the mercy of her emotional whims, as though he had no choice in the matter. And this wasn’t his first rodeo. She was most definitely his kryptonite, but he just couldn’t ever stay away. 

Ian pulled his phone from his pocket, drafting a text to Mickey, just in case what he thought was the worst-case scenario actually came to fruition. This way, he reasoned in his mind, it would be ready for him to send in a real hurry, if necessary.

“Mickey (heart emoji), If you’re reading this now, it means things didn’t go so well for me today. But they need my testimony, so I’m sure I’ll be back, eventually. I don’t want you to worry. Just know how much I love you and wish I could be with you, right now, and every minute. I miss you already. Yours forever (infiniti emoji)”

Once he’d finished the text, he began scrolling through some of the pictures Baldin had, ironically enough, taken of Ian and Mickey on their wedding day, subsequently sending them to both of their phones. Ian marveled at Mickey’s beauty and raw sex appeal. To this day, he found Mickey as utterly irresistible as he had on that fateful morning, so many years earlier, when he realized Mickey was, at the very least, his sexual soulmate. His eyes traced every contour of Mickey’s body, lingering on each perfect feature of his mesmerizing face. He loved Mickey to the ends of the earth, and couldn’t stop himself from tearing up as he thought about surviving another period of separation, no matter how brief. 

He didn’t like the idea that Mickey was going to court without him either. His lips began to quiver, and tears rolled down his freckled cheeks, as he contemplated all that could go wrong in that courtroom. ‘I should be there,’ he thought, considering the possibility of asking Baldin another question. He bit his tongue, however, making an earnest attempt to keep his emotions in check, but he just couldn’t. The best he could do was to stay quiet, save for the periodic sniffling it took to maintain a clean shirt, since there was no sign of a Kleenex box anywhere within his field of vision. Finally, he managed to cry himself to sleep, the sudden stop Baldin made jarring him awake shortly thereafter.

“Okay, we’re here,” Baldin grunted, reaching into the backseat for Ian’s cane and shoving it at him, “Get out.”

Ian opened the car door, leading with his cane, then leveraging his way up out of the seat and to his feet. His surroundings were nearly pitch-black, which Ian thought to be strange, given the time of day. It reminded him of the underground parking area they had been taken to for their witness protection training. ‘Medical,’ he thought to himself, his mind racing as he tried to fathom a reasonable explanation for Baldin bringing him here. ‘Surely they don’t think I’m manic!’ he told himself, over and over, adding the occasional, ‘I’m not,’ just to reassure himself. 

Baldin led him through an unmarked door into a dimly lit catacomb-like collection of spaces, filled with people in various states of medical infirmity, both physical and mental, as evidenced by the use of life-support machines, IV machines, padded rooms, and even straightjackets, which Ian knew to be illegal, at least in the State of Illinois.

“See this?” Baldin growled as Ian took in the collective misery of this horrific place’s inhabitants, “This is where protected witnesses go when they can’t testify, but also pose a threat to a case, or cannot be released for some other reason. Truthfully, I would have been just as happy to take you straight to Petersburg and let them lock you up, but Dr. Lange...well, she insists on giving you and your hoodlem husband the benefit of the doubt, even after all this shit you’ve caused.” 

Ian swallowed hard, his blood boiling over Baldin’s derogatory comment about Mickey. He wanted nothing more than to lash out, but he knew all too well that his future was in Baldin’s hands, so he held his tongue.

“And this here,” Baldin continued doubtingly, “This was Petrov’s idea. He said if you saw this, you wouldn’t give us any more problems. Trouble is...they want us in Petersburg now, which can’t be good...Not for you, and definitely not for me. I have a lot of explaining to do….So I gotta ask, you gonna pull any more bullshit? ‘Cause if you do, I’ll call the Bureau on you my damn self! Dr. Lange won’t stop me next time!” Baldin threatened, more to convince himself than anything else.

“No...I won’t give you trouble...I promise,” Ian supplicated, “Just please.. take me to the courthouse. I need to see…”

“Fuck no!!” Baldin bellowed, cutting Ian off, mid-sentence, “We have less than two hours to get to Petersburg...and it’s a haul. You just better hope they buy the story! Now, let’s get the fuck outta here!”

Ian plodded along as best he could, tuning out as much of the suffering around him as possible. They were nearing the exit, a mere fifty yards away, when the sound of a ventilator caught his attention. When Ian turned his head to see where the sound was coming from, he saw a pale, gaunt man, or the remnants of one anyway, lying completely motionless while machines breathed for him, made his heart beat, fed him, kept him hydrated. In fact, Ian couldn’t see that the man was doing a blessed thing to keep himself alive. And yet there he was, a prisoner within his own body.

Something about the man held Ian’s attention. He stared, unable to avert his gaze, no matter how he tried. “Can I have a minute?” he asked Baldin timidly, slowing his pace and angling toward the man’s bed.

“No. There’s no time. We gotta go,” Baldin said in a low, less intimidating tone than he’d used all morning.

Ian forced himself to look away, sickened by the prospect of anyone living the remainder of their life that way. Right then and there, he promised himself never to jeopardize his and Mickey’s safety, their relationship, or their status as protected witnesses.

Once they got back to the parking area, Ian struggled to get into the car, Baldin far too deep in thought to consider helping him. Instead, once both men were in the car, Baldin pulled a set of handcuffs from his duty bag. “GIve me your wrists!” he commanded. Ian willingly complied, after pulling his phone from his pocket.

“You won’t be able to bring that in,” Baldin warned, snapping the cuffs closed around Ian’s wrists, “So if you want to send anything, I’d do it now.”

Ian opened his text conversation with Mickey, reviewing what he’d drafted earlier that morning. He certainly didn’t want to send it in its original form. The last thing he wanted was to cause Mickey any additional worry, especially considering the kind of day he was sure Mickey was having. 

As Baldin navigated them out of the underground hell they had just visited, Ian worked to revise his text.

The new version, which he promptly sent, upon completion of his edit, read, “Mickey (heart emoji), Soon I will be at a prison in Petersburg, VA. We were asked to report there. Agent Baldin is planning to share a story that will keep me out, but I have no idea what he will say, or if the warden will believe it. They need my testimony, though, so I’m sure I’ll be back, if not today, then definitely when I testify, which will happen eventually. Please don’t worry. Just know how much I love you and wish I could be with you right now, and every minute. I miss you! Yours forever (infiniti emoji)”

________________________________________

“Okay, that’s enough for this morning. Let’s break for lunch,” Judge Edwards announced, once Attorney LeDonne had finished his direct examination of Mickey. Dr. Lange had excused herself only moments before, citing to an emergency situation involving one of her patients that had apparently been communicated to her by the bailiff.

Everything had gone fairly well, all things considered. Mickey had, of course, been embarrassed to share some of the more unseemly details of the terrible abuse that had been inflicted upon him, personally, as well as that which he’d witnessed being perpetrated against other inmates. And then there was the business of getting the whole helicopter story right. Obviously, he couldn’t tell the truth about all that had happened, surrounding their original ‘abduction’ from the helicopter pad at Johns Hopkins. 

In fact, Attorney LeDonne had done his best to prep him, without sacrificing his own integrity, using the unofficial notes that had been passed from Petrov to Baldin, then to him. Petrov, himself, ended up being the last to speak with Mickey, prior to his testimony, Mickey taking the witness stand with a shy, but confident resolve that earned him the respect of Attorney LeDonne and many others in the courtroom.

The defense team was another story entirely. They saw a change in Mickey, from morning to afternoon, and were determined to take full advantage of it. Mickey’s mood had plummeted within minutes of him leaving the courtroom. He had just taken his phone out of ‘airplane mode’, and immediately received the text message Ian had sent. Mickey read it and reread it in silent disbelief, feeling the sudden urge to run for the exit and find a way to Petersburg, wherever the fuck that was. Of course, he knew, logically, that doing so would only make everything worse, but his heart ached for Ian, going through this period of uncertainty alone, his fate left to the whims of the very people Mickey trusted least.

Petrov tried, at lunch, to figure out what had put Mickey into such a bad humor, but Mickey just shrugged it off, spending all of lunch scrolling through the wedding pics on his phone. It wasn’t until they were headed back to the courtroom that Mickey finally spoke up, “Where the fuck is Petersburg?”

“You mean the prison?” Petrov asked, shocked by the timing of Mickey’s question, as well as the question, itself.

“Yeah…” Mickey muttered, turning his head away from Petrov as his eyes filled with tears.

“It’s a little over two miles south of here...why?” Petrov questioned, beginning to connect the dots and fear the worst. 

Petrov had come to value Mickey and Ian, not only as reliable witnesses to the horrible conspiracy he had unearthed at his former place of employment, but also as people. First and foremost, Mickey had proven himself to be quite an asset in the midst of the crisis involving Teresa, Burman and the Aryan Brotherhood. He definitely recognized that Mickey had come from the same streets of Southside Chicago that he had, and wasn’t afraid to do whatever it took to protect his own.

Additionally, Teresa always spoke highly of them, especially Ian, since they had worked together extensively at the Stateville Infirmary. Ian was someone whose opinion she valued, and he had also shown his mettle, defending himself against Adolf, despite being bedridden. 

Most importantly, Petrov knew how madly in love Ian and Mickey were, and it made him think of his unfortunate situation with Teresa. He was in constant emotional anguish, with what he felt was a complete lack of control over the outcome. This, he understood, was the way Ian must have felt when Mickey’s survival was uncertain, and also how Mickey must be feeling at this very moment.

Mickey handed Petrov his phone in response to his question, allowing him to read the text that Ian had sent. As Petrov read, his face began to redden.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!” he roared, only steps away from the entrance to the courtroom, LaDonne looking on in dismay, “I could’ve reached out to Baldin...or some other friends! We might have known something, walking in here!”

Mickey just shrugged his shoulders again, staring down at his feet as he crossed the threshold of the courtroom. LeDonne was talking at him in a low voice, reviewing some of the key aspects of cross-examination, in general, then sharing that Judge Edwards had ruled the highly incriminating tape T had made ‘inadmissible’ without corroborating testimony from T. This meant the cross could be much more intense, so he reminded Mickey not to allow them to rattle him, but it was no use; Mickey’s mind was completely consumed with worry over Ian, his heart heavy with a deep sorrow, too profound for words.

‘Don’t let them get in your head,’ he heard Ian’s voice say. They had spent a fair amount of time talking about their upcoming testimony in this, and in the Cartel case. Ian, knowing Mickey’s hatred of law-enforcement and lawyers, and recalling his volatile state at their competency hearing, had made a special effort to try and insulate Mickey from a complete meltdown, stressing the importance of them both retaining their credibility. 

Mickey was stone-faced as he took the witness stand, his icy stare met with the equally cold, calculating scowl of the lead defense attorney, Daryl Krugh, who wasted no time in setting about to grill Mickey. He started with some of the suspicious aspects of the whole helicopter story, quizzing him on how so many members of the Aryan Brotherhood ended up dead, following thereafter with specific questions about Burman’s injuries. Mickey lied like a champ, showing little to no emotion, despite a tremendous uptick in the intensity of the questioning with regard to how he had ended up shooting Burman in both legs. 

It was only when Krugh’s questioning turned to the topic of the abuse that both Mickey and Ian had suffered at Stateville, that Mickey began to bristle.

“Isn’t it true that you prefer the company of men...sexually?” Krugh inquired snidely.

“Objection---relevance!” LeDonne called out forcefully.

“Your honor, I’m merely trying to show that these encounters, while disturbing because they involved employees of Stateville Prison, could have been consensual,” Krugh argued.

“I’ll allow it. Please answer the question,” the judge ruled, Mickey glaring at him contemptuously.

“I prefer the company of my husband, who they also fucked with!” Mickey growled, his pulse pounding in his head as he relived those brief moments outside the shower room where he heard Burman addressing Ian---ordering him to do things, and threatening to do the unspeakable to him.

“The witness will refrain from using profanity in this courtroom!” Judge Edwards admonished. 

No sooner had the judge finished chiding Mickey, than Krugh spoke up, “Objection! Hearsay! The witness was never present for any of the alleged abuse inflicted upon his now-husband!” adding, “Those allegations should be addressed in the presence of the witness who made them.”

“Sustained. Let the record reflect that the jury is to disregard the second half of the witness’s statement,” Judge Edwards responded, both Mickey and LeDonne shaking their heads.

Just then, the doors to the courtroom opened, Dr. Lange entering as discreetly as possible.

“So your testimony is that you’ve never willingly engaged in sexual behaviors with a man, other than your husband, in jail or prison?” Krugh asked, for clarification.

Mickey looked down at his own hands in front of him, the gold ring Ian had pushed onto his finger, less than a month before, shining brightly under the fluorescent lights above him. He was ashamed that he had fucked other guys in prison, not because they were guys, but because they weren’t Ian. He was speechless, unable to admit what he had all but forgotten the moment he had Ian back in his arms, and feeling that his commitment to Ian was somehow cheapened by his forced recollections of these earlier, voluntary sexual escapades.

“Sir, please answer the question,” Judge Edwards instructed.

“This is an OUTRAGE!” Dr. Lange screamed, as she rose to her feet in protest.

“Mr. LeDonne, you’d better keep your other witness under control, or I’ll find her in Contempt!” the judge warned. 

Mickey’s eyes trailed over to Dr. Lange, almost apologetically, catching a defiant grimace on her face that scared him. He certainly didn’t want her to get into any trouble over him, especially after all she’d done to help both he and Ian, even after they’d made such major blunders.

“Arright...yeah...I did...but not at Stateville,” Mickey stammered, after taking a deep breath.

“So you’re asking this Court to believe that, despite your having enjoyed sex with men in prison before, your experiences at Stateville were non-consensual?”

“Right,” Mickey answered curtly, pressing his lips into a thin line, as he did his best not to flip shit on this asshole.

“Isn’t it true that you are what homosexuals call a ‘bottom’? Krugh prodded with a sadistic glint in his eye.

“Objection! Inflammatory!” LeDonne hollered, completely aghast at Krugh’s audacity, and gravely concerned with his witness’s mental state, given Mickey’s change in posture, facial expression, and hand position, his right hand curled into an angry fist.

Dr. Lange wriggled uncomfortably in her seat. It took everything in her not to rush the witness stand and pull her patient right out of the courtroom. The emotional pain he was being forced to endure was, in her mind, unconscionable, and she’d only been there for about half of it.

“Your honor, this goes to the habits of the witness, which, I will show, are consistent with the interaction between him and the accused being normal, consensual behaviors for this witness.”

“Overruled. The witness will answer,” Judge Edwards said matter-of-factly.

Now Mickey was furious! How could questions about his private sexual preferences be permitted in a court of law? He felt violated all over again, like HE was the one on trial. He sat silently, avoiding eye contact with anyone, his whole body shaking violently.

“The witness will answer the question!” the judge repeated gruffly, clearly offended by what he saw as a lack of respect for the Court, on Mickey’s part.

“Some...sometimes,” Mickey mumbled through clenched teeth, Dr. Lange looking on in absolute horror, her eyes wet, her stomach churning, as she watched Mickey being shamed for his sexuality, much as he had been for most of his young life.

“Could you please repeat that? I’m not sure the court-reporter heard you,” Krugh sneered.

“I said, ‘SOMETIMES!’” Mickey bellowed, glaring at Krugh, then shifting his gaze pleadingly in LeDonne’s direction. Clearly, he wanted LeDonne to somehow bring an end to this ridiculous line of questioning, though he couldn’t imagine how, given what seemed like Judge Edwards’s clear prejudice. He either hated gays or respected correctional officers unconditionally. Under the current circumstances, it didn’t matter which. In either case, Mickey was fucked!

“So does being a ‘bottom’ include being digitally penetrated by a partner?” Krugh continued, LeDonne staying quiet this time, realizing the futility of making an objection. Dr. Lange shifted in her seat, again having great difficulty restraining herself.

“HE WASN’t MY FUCKIN’ PARTNER!!” Mickey screamed, completely losing his composure. 

“Are you sure about that?” Krugh taunted. 

“Am I fuckin’ sure...Yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure!!!” The piece of shit beat the fuck outta me and put his...I can’t even...and he forced my husband to…” Mickey stopped talking, too worked up to say another word. He curled up into a ball, hugging his legs into his body, his head down, eyes resting on his knees. He couldn’t let them see how upset they’d made him. He refused to look at anyone or even to acknowledge LeDonne, who was attempting to coax him off the stand, after having asked for and been granted a recess until the following morning.

Finally, with Judge Edwards’s permission, Dr. Lange approached, talking Mickey down, then helping him from the stand. He slunk back to his seat in humiliation, awaiting the judge’s official dismissal. 

“I’m sorry, Mickey…” LeDonne began, as they neared the exit.

Mickey just kept walking, reaching into his pocket for his phone the very second he was out the door to turn off ‘airplane mode’. 

‘It’ll all be worth it if Ian is comin’ home,” he told himself as he reconnected his phone with the outside world, watching it hopefully. 

No messages.


	60. Classic PTSD

The house was dark when the transport van pulled up. Mickey’s heart sank. He’d suspected that Ian was being held in Petersburg, since he hadn’t heard from him, and all of his call attempts had gone straight to voicemail. He had done his best not to let on to Dr. Lange how utterly devastated he was. He felt he’d caused her enough anguish in the courtroom. 

He also understood, from the way Baldin had spoken to her that morning, that she had her own personal issues to deal with, so she didn’t need to be addressing his. Besides, he didn’t want to talk about it. All he wanted was a drink. No. Many drinks. The sooner he passed out, the better. He needed sleep, in order to deal with court again the next day, and he knew he was going to have a terrible time sleeping without Ian. 

‘Nothin’ a bottle of whiskey can’t solve,’ he told himself, hoping Ian had left at least some of the Henny from the night before, but doubting it at the same time, based on the stupid-ass decisions Ian had made that night. He decided to ask Dr. Lange the favor of getting him a bottle, once she realized that neither Ian nor Baldin were there. She agreed, Mickey finessing his way into riding along.

“You’ll have to leave your phone here though. We don’t need any more trouble than we already have,” she called to him from her car, just as he appeared from inside the house, confirming that there wasn’t a drop of booze to be had in the whole place.

“What if Ian calls?” Mickey asked pleadingly.

“You wanna stay here then?” she offered.

Before he could answer, an unfamiliar car approached, coming from the opposite direction of the gate, the passenger-side window going down as it pulled up slowly in front of their house. Mickey freaked out and hit the deck.

“Hey, you okay, man?” the male driver, none other than their neighbor, Marcus, hollered past his wife, Miranda. “You must be Ian,” he continued, throwing the car in park, then watching as Dr. Lange walked up slowly on Mickey.

“No, that’s Mickey,” Miranda corrected Marcus.

“ You sure? That looks like classic PTSD to me,” Marcus questioned.

“Yes, I’m sure! Ian has blonde hair!” she answered, without hesitation.

Dr. Lange helped Mickey to his feet, comforting him and doing her best to reassure him, while keeping an eye on the vehicle, just in case.

“Lt. Lange! Good to see you! How is Ian?” Marcus inquired respectfully, his manner jovial and light, “I’d love to meet him!”

Mickey glared at Marcus with disdain. Who the hell was this guy who was so revved up to meet Ian, and how did he know Dr. Lange?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Marcus began as he stepped out of the car, then rounded it, approaching Mickey, where he stood, and extending his arm to shake Mickey’s hand, “i should have introduced myself. I’m Marcus Pilsen...Hospital Corpsman...8404---you know...I’m assigned to a Marine unit. Oh, and I’m also Miranda’s husband.”

“Hi Mickey!” Miranda called out from the car with an innocent smile, waving her hand like an 8-year-old on a road trip. 

“Hey,” Mickey said with an awkward grin, shaking Marcus’ hand, while directing his verbal response toward Miranda. 

Now all the pieces began to fit together for Mickey. This was the guy from down the street, the one whose car Ian had wrecked. Mickey was really embarrassed, not only by Ian’s accident in their car, but also by his own bizarre, ‘duck and cover’ behavior. Under other circumstances, he might have taken some time to make his apologies, and perhaps even invited them in, but the current situation was anything but normal, and all Mickey could think about was that whiskey hitting the back of his throat. 

“...Nice ta meet ya. We gotta get goin’,” Mickey spoke at a hurried pace, as he headed for Dr. Lange’s car, where she was already sitting in the driver’s seat, hoping to avoid any further personal questions about Ian. 

“Is Ian here? I just wanna tell him that I understand...and that he can still borrow my car anytime,” Marcus piped up. He had done some reading about the severe injuries some Marines in the last major deployment to Afghanistan had suffered, as well as the circumstances behind them. It now made sense to him, why Dr. Lange would be working with Ian.

“No, man. Sorry, he’s not here,” Mickey answered, watching a puzzled look wash over Marcus’ face.

“Oh,” Marcus laughed uncomfortably, “Are you guys going together to pick him up, or….”

“Uh, yeah...gotta go,” Mickey cut him off, hopping quickly into the passenger’s seat of Dr. Lange’s car. She waited for Marcus and Miranda to get far enough ahead that they wouldn’t end up behind them at the gate, then pulled out onto the road.

They had nearly gotten to the gate before she remembered that Mickey was supposed to leave his phone. “Your phone!” she said in something close to a panic, preparing to turn around. 

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled as he felt for it in his pocket, “What the f…” 

“Mickey! Where is it?!” Dr. Lange asked, bordering on hysterical. She knew if that phone made its way off base again at this hour, Baldin would be in even more trouble than she figured he already was, and all because of her...and Ian. 

Truly, Mickey bore some responsibility, too, but his mistake paled in comparison to theirs, in her mind. Hell, she had to admit, she was just feeling terribly sorry for him at the moment—for his horrific day in court, for his coming home to an empty house, and for the kind of life he had obviously lived, to make him dive to the ground in response to someone rolling a car window down.

“I...I don’t know…Musta come outta my pocket when I…” Mickey paused, rechecking every possible pocket in his pants.

“I’ll call it,” Dr. Lange suggested, pulling her phone out of her purse. And when she tried making the call, she realized she hadn’t taken her phone out of ‘airplane mode’. Once she did, a lone text message came through, along with several missed calls.

“Headed back. Please wait for me at Quantico,” the text, which had come from Baldin, read. 

Dr. Lange decided not to mention the text, reading that its ambiguity might unsettle Mickey even more than he already was. She focused, instead, on the task at hand, dialing Mickey’s number and listening for a ring or buzz from his phone.

“Okay, I guess it did fall out of your pocket. I’ll turn back so we can look for it,” she suggested.

“Nah. We’re closer to the liquor store. I’ll just run in real quick, then we’ll go back and find it.” Mickey responded, much to Dr. Lange’s surprise. ‘He must really need that drink,’ she thought to herself. And the way she interpreted Baldin’s message, she had to agree.

“So...how does G.I. Joe know you anyway, Doc?” Mickey asked, making small talk as they neared the turn for the liquor store.

“I worked with him at Bethesda,” she replied absently, her mind spinning as she thought of the realities both Ian and Mickey would face, if Ian were to be locked up for any real amount of time.

Dr. Lange pulled up to the liquor store and Mickey hopped out, before she could suggest that he stay in the car. She held her breath as she waited, praying for his safe return. It wasn’t that she believed he was in danger, it was that she couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t, and protecting witnesses in unsafe environments wasn’t on her résumé. The last thing she needed was any more complicating issues that could be traced back to her. 

Mickey reappeared in seconds, before she even had the chance to consider a call or text to Baldin. “Got somethin’ extra for you and Agent Baldin,” Mickey grinned, sliding back into the passenger’s seat and stowing two bagged bottles at his feet.”

“You didn’t have to…” Dr. Lange began, only to have Mickey stop her, mid-sentence.

“I wanted to. You guys been under a lotta stress cuz’ of me and Ian. You deserve to relax,” he said with a knowing smile that made Dr. Lange blush.

The remainder of the short ride back was quiet, Mickey focused squarely on getting as wasted as possible, as quickly as possible, so he could stop feeling so fucking miserable. His day in court had been brutal, and now all he had to look forward to was a night alone---or NOT alone, if Baldin decided he needed to stay, though with Ian gone, he wondered if Baldin would think it necessary. He struggled not to crack the bottle open in the car, since he knew the doc would object. 

Baldin’s car was in the driveway when they pulled up. Mickey’s heart leapt in his chest as he pondered the possibility that his love was home. His hopes were quickly dashed, however, as Baldin emerged from the house alone, a pinched, agitated look on his face as he began to snarl in the general direction of Mickey and Dr. Lange as they exited the car, 

“Where the hell were you two?! And why the FUCK was this lying on the sidewalk?!” Baldin demanded, waving Mickey’s phone at them, as he fought himself to keep his voice low, for the sake of their cover.

“Sergei! We will talk about this inside!” Dr. Lange growled in a voice Mickey had never heard from her before.

Baldin turned and disappeared back into the house, Debra chasing closely after him, with Mickey bringing up the rear, one paper-wrapped bottle under each arm.

“Mickey, I’m sorry, but can we please have a few minutes...alone?” Dr. Lange requested politely, upon Mickey’s entrance.

“Sure…” Mickey answered flatly, a quick survey of the room confirming his assumption that Ian was, in fact, not there. He deposited one bottle on the coffee table and headed for the kitchen with the other. 

“Sergei, I…” Debra began defensively, once Mickey had left the room, Baldin eyeing her up and down as she stood before him, looking nothing short of ravishing, in spite of her harrowing day.

Sergei closed the distance between them, pressing his index finger to her lips, “Shhhhh,” he whispered, quickly replacing his finger with his own mouth, “Don’t say another word,” he breathed into her mouth, as he began to kiss her, slowly at first. 

“But I…” she started again, before surrendering completely to Sergei, all of the emotion and stress of the day falling away from them both, amid their passionate exchange. 

Baldin lifted her into his arms, carrying her off to the spare bedroom. “You’re nothing but trouble, you know,” he hissed, tossing her onto the bed roughly, “And you’re gonna pay for it.”  
_________________________

Mickey, doing his best to tune out all of the background noise, filled a container with ice, grabbed a glass, then headed for his bedroom, his bottle, and a two-liter Coke also in tow. His hands were so full, he had to kick the door open.

“Hi, handsome,” Ian purred, as he lay in their bed, grinning up at Mickey seductively, “Can WE please have a few minutes...alone?”


	61. Role-Play

Mickey’s first inclination, despite how relieved he was to find Ian lying in their bed, was to go ballistic. He had attempted to calm himself, stripping his clothing off and crawling into bed next to Ian, but his first words still came out harsh,

“Ian! Do you have any fuckin’ idea how worried I was about you?! And I was...I couldn’t…” Mickey sputtered, his fury quickly replaced with guilt and sorrow. 

He just couldn’t shake the feelings that his cross-examination had brought to the surface, regarding his earlier sexual experiences in prison. It wasn’t the attempted rape that troubled him most. That was easily explained away, totally excusable, and certainly wasn’t the worst he’d ever endured, in that regard. Rather, it was his willful indiscretions, his voluntary encounters, that really bothered him.

Though they had happened a long time ago, reliving those experiences, as he was being pressed about them in court, made him feel dirty, like what he had done was somehow ‘cheating’ on Ian. Nevermind the fact that he had done these things with Ian on his mind, literally imagining that he was with Ian throughout the entire act, or that Ian, back then, was out fucking the hell out of just about anything that moved, or that the two weren’t even ‘together’ at the time, Mickey still felt like shit about it.

“Mick, I’m fine. Would you just fucking relax?” Ian mumbled into Mickey’s ear, as he pulled him close, breathing him in, licking, sucking and biting at his neck hungrily, as he reached down to fondle his package. Ian could feel the tension in Mickey’s body, and planned to do everything in his power to put him at ease. 

Ian’s hot, panting breath caressed the inside of Mickey’s ear as Ian smashed his fully-erect cock into Mickey’s right ass cheek, grinding against it repetitively, while continuing to massage Mickey’s minimally responsive package. 

“What’s wrong?” Ian whispered softly into Mickey’s ear, after what he considered to be an unusually lengthy attempt at arousing his typically ever-ready lover, “Want me to give you a rub down?”

“Want a drink? I’m gonna have a fuckin’ drink,” Mickey muttered in response, extricating himself from Ian’s clingy, full-body embrace, then jumping to his feet and heading for the dresser, where he had left all of the necessary drink components.

“Nah...figured we both had enough last night, right?” Ian countered, a look of genuine concern etched into his face.

“Well...I’m fuckin’ havin’ one. Think I deserve it, after the fuckin’ day I had,” Mickey asserted, pouring himself a strong drink.

“Hurry back to bed. I’ll rub some of the tension outta your back,” Ian offered, taking notice of the sad expression on Mickey’s face.

Mickey downed his first drink in an instant, quickly pouring a second, then returning to the bed, sitting on its edge, as he continued to drink.

Ian finessed his way up onto his knees and began rubbing Mickey’s shoulders. “Talk to me, Mick,” he encouraged, his hands traveling down onto Mickey’s upper back, his thumbs pressing firmly into the muscles on either side of his spine.

Mickey groaned reflexively as Ian expertly released the pent- up stress from Mickey’s shoulders and back.

“What the fuck’s got you so knotted up?” Ian asked, maneuvering Mickey into a horizontal, face-down position, after removing the nearly empty drinking glass from his grasp. Ian straddled Mickey, then continued to aggressively massage the full expanse of his back.

There was a long silence, punctuated only by the occasional moan of relief that Ian managed to coax from Mickey’s lips.

“I do expect an answer,” Ian finally piped up, beginning to work at Mickey’s hips with his talented hands.

“Ever fuck anyone in prison?” Mickey asked, off-the-cuff, fully expecting, yet also dreading the answer he got.

“Just you...why?” was Ian’s immediate, nonchalant reply.

“Well, today I…” Mickey began, unable to finish his sentence.

Ian pressed into the small of Mickey’s back with the heels of his hands, then fanning his fingers out to grip Mickey’s hips and twisting them, for which he was rewarded with a delicious pop that made Mickey shudder and gasp simultaneously. 

“Felt good, huh?” Ian asked innocently.

“Ian, no one has ever fuckn’ felt like you...ever...” Mickey sighed woefully, feeling himself getting emotional, despite his marked efforts not to.

“Are we still talking about the massage?” Ian chuckled, playfully smacking Mickey’s ass, flipping him onto his back, then resuming his straddling position. He leaned over his husband longingly, peering down into Mickey’s devastatingly beautiful, yet heartbreakingly sad eyes.

“What?!” Ian demanded, wiping at the unruly tears that escaped involuntarily from the eyes that had just torn a gaping hole in his heart. 

“Ian, I….Today in court...they asked me…” Mickey stammered, covering his eyes with his forearm in shame.

“Asked you what?” Ian questioned, softening the tone of his voice in response to Mickey’s obvious inner struggle.

“The defense asked me about my...my habits….in prison,” Mickey blurted out, continuing to hold his arm over his eyes, his voice thick with anguish and self-loathing.

“What!? How is that any of their fucking business?!” Ian fumed, feeling his blood pressure rise instantaneously .

“The guy said that me having sex with guys in prison... means...means...I let Burman do what he did,” Mickey murmured.

“That’s bullshit!” Ian yelled, pulling Mickey’s arm away from his face and pinning it to the bed.

“Look at me,” Ian growled, “You have nothing to be ashamed of!”

“Ian…” Mickey began, unable to even look back at him as he spoke, “I’m fuckin’ ashamed that I did that shit in prison...with other dudes. You were the only one I really wanted... I swear,” Mickey confessed tearfully. “Truth is...I closed my fuckin’ eyes and...and they were you...all of ‘em!”

“Hmmm…” Ian pondered aloud, a devilish grin spreading over his face as he continued to take in the striking beauty of his to-die-for husband---his jet-black hair, his magnetic, crystal-blue eyes, his full, pouty lips, not to mention his ridiculously sexy body. ‘And this ass…’ he thought to himself, slipping his hands under Mickey and squeezing both gloriously round cheeks.

“Yeah...bet you had your pick, back in the day,” Ian surmised, staring down at Mickey’s magnificence, suddenly giddy with excitement, an outright giggle slipping from between his broadly smiling lips. 

“Not funny!” Mickey protested, though Ian had definitely lightened his mood a bit with his silly antics.

“Oh, I know...In fact, what it is, is really fucking hot,” Ian went on, his naughty hands moving on to take a complete inventory of Mickey’s gorgeous form, as he leaned down to kiss him.

“I know what we should do,” Ian purred between impassioned kisses.

“Oh yeah? What?” Mickey breathed, Ian finally having achieved his goal of both calming and arousing his mate.

“I want you to pretend I’m one of those guys...you know...one of your prison bitches,” Ian spoke encouragingly, and with an eagerness that got Mickey hard, just thinking about it.

“You serious?” Mickey smirked, the alcohol really starting to hit him, at this point.

“As a heart attack,” Ian shot back flirtatiously, arching his eyebrows as he rose from the bed to pour Mickey a fresh drink, then making one for himself.

“So...who am I gonna be?” Ian asked, grinning from ear to ear, his gigantic member, once again, approaching its maximum length and girth, as he pondered the possibilities, “And whatcha gonna do to me?”

“Well…” Mickey stalled, taking an anxious gulp from his glass, uncertain as to how he should proceed, and what he should share.

“C’mon, Mick,” Ian prodded, “Was it always the same? Was there one you fucked a lot? What?! I really wanna know.” 

“Why the fuck would you wanna know this shit?!” Mickey asked defensively.

“I don’t know, actually,” Ian explained, “Just something about the thought of you...well...it just makes me really…” 

“Yeah...I can see what it does…” Mickey snickered, his eyes glued to Ian’s nearly bursting cock, as Ian openly masterbated himself, “I just don’t get why so many fuckin’ questions!”. 

“I really wanna get into this, Mick. You know...like a role-play?” Ian cajoled.

“Arright, Arright!” Mickey blasted back, chugging what was left of his third Milkovich-strength drink. He could feel his head swimming, a buzz of warmth emanating from his ears and the tip of his nose, his face alit with a pinkish glow that told Ian all he needed to know---he had this. He was completely enamoured with the prospect of making his fantasy a reality, and in his current condition, Mickey would most surely be along for the ride. 

“Okay...you remember that time you came to visit me at Cook County?” Mickey paused, but Ian gave no reply. “Ya should...it was one of the only times ya showed for me...and it was ‘cuz Svetlana paid you,” Mickey began, his tone remaining strikingly matter-of-fact, the alcohol clearly having a numbing effect, as he relived what had to be an extremely painful past event.

“Yeah…” Ian acknowledged, reaching for Mickey and pulling him back to bed, before he could get anything more to drink. 

“Well, after you left, I was really depressed, frustrated...and horny as fuck!” Mickey lamented, glancing sideways at Ian, every fews words, as he sat, perched on the edge of the bed.

Ian trailed the long fingers of his left hand teasingly down Mickey’s spine, urging him on, all while using his right hand to continue stroking his own impatient cock. 

“When I got back to my cell, my first cellie was there. We were cellmates for a lot of the time I was in—before Damon—so we knew shit about each other,” Mickey explained candidly, the alcohol’s magic, now in full-bloom, lowering his inhibitions and loosening his tongue to the point that he no longer gave a shit about what he should and shouldn’t share.

“Yeah? Like what kinda shit?” Ian inquired, his curiosity, among other things, growing by the second.

“Well...for one thing...he knew all about you,” Mickey said with a wistful smile that tugged at Ian’s heart.

“He’s the one that helped me get the shit to do this,” he added, pointing proudly to the ‘Ian Galagher’ tattoo on his chest that had, ironically enough, been instrumental in getting them back together, once Dr. Lange saw it.

“And I knew he had a wife at home...They had a rough life...fought a lot...but he loved her. Said he missed her cookin’...and the intense head she gave him, ‘specially after real bad fights…” Mickey paused, leering over at Ian, who had himself so excited, his dick had already started to leak. 

“I’m listening,” Ian assured Mickey, slowing his jerking tempo, in order to appear more attentive.

“Yeah, well, I guess she wasn’t afraid ta throw a punch...or even ta beat his ass, when she thought he needed it...And he missed that, too...I mean he really fuckin’ missed it. Wanted me ta...” Mickey went abruptly silent, sliding off the edge of the bed and coming to a standing position.

Mickey’s eyes moved swiftly over Ian’s body, their focus eventually falling upon Ian’s rock-hard unit, which had suddenly become nearly irresistible to Mickey. 

He somehow managed to tear his eyes away, focusing them on the bottle of cheap whiskey that he was now set on draining further. He reached for the bottle, putting it to his lips and taking a generous nip, before chasing it with some Coke. 

“C’mon, Mick! Don’t leave me hanging! So what did you do...after I visited?” he pleaded, unconsciously licking his lips in anticipation.

“Ya really wanna know?” Mickey asked, though, by the sound of his voice, it seemed like more of a warning.

“Yeah, not only do I wanna know...I want you to do it...to me,” Ian practically begged, adding, “I’m all yours. Wanna know what you woulda done to me that day.”

“You sure?” Mickey questioned, apparently still worried that Ian didn’t fully understand what he was getting himself into.

“Yes! I’m fucking sure, Mick!” Ian yelled, “Now...you gonna fuck me...or what?!”

“Okay, man...I fuckin’ love you,” Mickey muttered under his breath, almost as though he needed to remind them both, before he did what he was about to do. 

And then his face changed, twisting into an evil-looking version of himself, the likes of which Ian had never seen.”Drop ‘em!” Mickey hollered, slamming the bottle on the nightstand, right beside Ian’s head, causing him to flinch.

“I’m already naked!” Ian laughed nervously, as he continued to pleasure himself, hovering just shy of orgasm. As uneasy as Mickey’s change in demeanor had made him, Ian found himself to be all the more drawn to him, and scarcely able to control his ever-building excitement.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch!” Mickey growled with a ferocity that silenced Ian immediately, “And get yourself ready for me!”

Mickey yanked the nightstand drawer open, retrieving a tube of lube, then throwing it at Ian’s head. Ian managed, somehow, to dodge it...barely. “What the fuck!?” Ian whined, startled, and, though he’d never admit it, more than a little bit spooked.

“I said...Shut.The.Fuck.Up,” Mickey growled menacingly, grabbing Ian by the neck roughly and shoving his face into his pillow, “You”ll have a reason to whine soon enough...And stay there! Don’t want no one hearin’ your bitchy little screams! You understand me?”

Ian nodded his head in obedient assent, finding it a bit difficult to take a full breath, the pillow hindering the airflow to and from his nostrils significantly. And yet, he felt so alive, his brain humming with excitement, butterflies in his stomach, his palms soaked with the sweat of desire and nervous anticipation. This was everything! Mickey was everything! Ian’s body ached for Mickey’s touch, his soul craving that cosmic connection that only their sexual union could bring.

“Gimme that!” Mickey hissed, grabbing the lube from Ian’s hand and squirting an ample gob between Ian’s milky-white cheeks, then doing a brief, cursory prep of his pristine hole, before retrieving one of Ian’s plastic hospital slippers from under the bed. 

“Not as good as at Cook County, but I’ll make it work,” he grunted, winding up then bringing the slipper down swiftly across both cheeks of Ian’s ass. “Ya like that?” Mickey snarled, raising his slipper-wielding hand over his head, as he awaited Ian’s reply.

“Yessss,” Ian hissed between clenched teeth, still fondling himself underneath his own body, othwise submitting completely to Mickey’s will.

“Plenty more where that came from,” Mickey promised, gritting his teeth, as he whipped Ian mercilessly with the slipper, Ian’s rapidly reddening, welt-laden buttocks tensing up in anticipation of each savage blow, Ian’s faint, pillow-muffled cries falling on deaf ears, as Mickey continued, without hesitation, dominating Ian with a complete lack of restraint.

Mickey was having an out-out-body experience. He could see himself beating the fuck out of Ian, but it seemed, to Mickey, as though someone else was doing it, at the urging of his subconscious mind. And yet, somewhere deep within him, he took vengeful pleasure in the harsh punishment Ian was receiving at his hands.

Ian seemed to be loving it, too, becoming more and more aroused with each successive, angry swat, both men deriving some inexplicably profound cathartic benefit. Finally, as Mickey came to his senses, beginning to fear he might draw blood, if he continued at his current level of intensity, Ian lifted his head, exposing his tear-soaked face to announce his impending climax, “Oh fuck yeah, Mick! Harder! Please! I’m gonna cum!”

“Not until I’m finished with you!! You’re gonna fuckin’ apologize! You hear me?” Mickey roared, each word predicated by a vicious stroke of the unforgiving slipper that Mickey brandished with a deep-seeded rage that rose from some well-hidden, scarred-over place inside him. 

“Tell me!!” he ordered sternly, rearing back and exacting one last, particularly sadistic blow across Ian’s battered buttocks, Ian letting out a scream so blood-curdling, even the pillow failed to deaden it.

Mickey manhandlied Ian into a supine position, hurling the slipper against the wall forcefully as he caught sight of Ian’s innocent-looking, tear-stained face.

Then, in what Ian considered to be an impeccably-timed plot twist, Mickey lowered His face to Ian’s pelvic area, languidly enveloping Ian’s monster cock with his soft mouth, his velvety smooth lips ringing it exquisitely as he sucked him like a gigantic popsicle, if only for a minute, long enough to make Ian more desperately miserable, his pulse now pounding through his soundly-paddled ass and his nearly-exploding dick.

“Okay...okay,” came a tortured whimper from Ian’s crimson lips, “I’m sorry, Mick...I really fucking am.”

His shimmering green eyes appeared to be sincere, though Ian’s impossibly stiff cock gave Mickey pause, as to his true motives.“Yeah...we’ll see…” Mickey trailed off, flipping Ian again, pulling his marred, swollen ass-cheeks apart to expose his well-lubed, enticingly pink hole, then beginning to tongue it teasingly.

“Mick…” Ian breathed in desperation, “Want you so fucking bad…”

This, Mickey believed, one hundred percent, Ian’s pitifully yearning plea bringing him back to reality. He couldn’t bear for Ian to suffer for another second. He eased a finger into him, swirling him open, then gingerly adding a second, and a third, painstakingly stretching him as he licked his tender ball sack, all while Ian continued to manipulate his own throbbing tool.

Finally, Mickey was satisfied that Ian was ready for him. “Now I’m gonna fuck the hell outta your tight little ass,” he whispered wickedly into Ian’s ear, lubing himself up to penetrate the only man he’d ever loved, after beating the daylights out of him mere moments before. The whole eerily familiar scene was so surreal to him, yet he was driven by some primal urge, to proceed.

Ian curled his lower lip under his teeth and bit down hard, preparing himself for a violent onslaught, and doing his best to bear down, in order to allow as smooth an entry as possible, under the circumstances. He held his breath, not knowing what to expect, but accepting, in advance—-relishing, even—-anything Mickey dished out, then letting out a sigh of relief as he felt Mickey begin to carefully finesse the tip of his gorgeous cock beyond the first of Ian’s sphincters. 

“Ian...so fucking tight…” Mickey murmured amid his labored breath. Ian really was tighter than Fort Knox, but, to Mickey, he felt like heaven on earth.

“Ian...I love you so fuckin’ much,” he purred, Ian taking a bit more with each cautious thrust, until he’d taken all of him, Mickey’s significant girth still causing a twinge of burning discomfort on the uptake, and an equal and opposite feeling of pure pleasure with each retreat.

Mickey was patient, allowing for Ian to adjust, before hastening his tempo. In fact, he waited for Ian’s verbal request, which came very quickly, once Mickey had bottomed out.

“Mickey...Mickey...harder...faster...Fuck me like I’m your bitch!” he squealed, clawing at the bed sheets as Mickey happily obliged him, grabbing Ian by the hips and slamming into him, over and over, his knuckles white with exertion, his fingernails sunk deeply into Ian’s flawless alabaster flesh, as he fought to maintain control of the wildly bucking bronco beneath him.

“Oh my...fuck!!” Ian called out deliriously as he rutted his tender bottom ardently against Mickey’s unrelenting hips, Mickey rocking backward and at an angle, nailing him just right and taking great delight in the sweet sounds of Ian’s ecstasy, as he dragged a long string of rhapsodic moans, throaty grunts and praiseful profanity from his lover’s lips. Nothing could top the glorious feeling of pleasing his man this way! Nothing in the world!

“Mickeyyyyyyy!!!!” Ian wailed, exploding over his own fist as Mickey railed him relentlessly, chasing his own climax, Ian’s clenching buttocks making short work of him.

“Ohhhhhh...Ian...un-fuckin’-believable!!” Mickey shrieked, his entire body convulsing, adopting Ian’s rhythm and making it his own, as he shot off rapturously inside his one-and-only.

After a few blissful moments, Ian lifted his sweat-soaked head from the pillow once more, his voice raspy and barely audible, “Mick...please tell me you didn’t fuck that guy like that!” he panted, still working to catch his breath after their intense, dramatic experience..

“What?” Mickey asked, his legs shaking, his spiritual being still somewhere in orbit. 

“I said,” Ian began to repeat, his initial comment making a delayed registration with Mickey.

“Oh, fuck yeah...Sure did,” Mickey replied with a smile, flipping Ian over to suck the delicious coating of cum off his man’s spent cock. 

“Surprised he let you escape. You’d’ve been a hard habit to break,” Ian said in jest, though there wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d ever let Mickey go, himself, after being lucky enough to have him back.

“Ian...everything was like that, all the way down to the part where I screamed your name...only difference...no one feels like you, moves like you, tastes like you...Ian...I only love one man...and it’s you,” Mickey spoke honestly, tears, once again, threatening to fall, “I never wanted anyone else.”

“I know, Mick, and I’m so fucking sorry I wasn’t there for you. I have no excuse. Eight years seemed like an eternity, and I knew I couldn’t handle seeing you and not being able to touch you, hold you, kiss you, or fuck you, for what felt like forever. I know I really fucked up, but I plan to spend the rest of our lives making it up to you, if you’ll let me,” Ian cooed into Mickey’s ear, after pulling him into the bed beside him.

“You gonna let me?” Ian asked, positioning his ‘little spoon’ for the sleep they both so desperately needed, then burying his nose into Mickey’s soft, silky-smooth neck and inhaling his divine deliciousness.

“Anything for you, Ian…” Mickey breathed groggily, snuggling up against Ian's warm, protectively loving body, “Anything…”

.


	62. Misery Loves Company

“Mick,” Ian breathed softly into Mickey’s ear, pressing against him from behind, as was his habit most mornings, Mickey’s alluring aroma nearly always stirring him up, before he was even fully awake. And Ian was most certainly up for it this morning, in particular, since he had been on the receiving end of things the night before, and was craving the finest ass he’d ever graced with his equally praiseworthy cock. 

Mickey readjusted his position, nestling himself further into Ian’s embrace, emitting a contented sigh that melted Ian instantly. “I love you, Mick,” Ian whispered, nuzzling the nape of Mickey’s neck with his nose, inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with Mickey’s ambrosial scent. The soreness of his backside, a remnant of the previous night’s activities, was a reminder of how badly he had hurt Mickey, his physical pain paling in comparison to the mental anguish he felt, as he recalled Mickey’s words, ‘You remember…? Ya should...It was one of the only times you showed for me…’cuz Svetlana paid you.’

“Mick!” Ian spoke a bit more loudly, and with urgency, startling Mickey awake, Mickey immediately coming to an upright position and reaching for the nightstand drawer handle, presumably for a gun that wasn’t there. Ian had seen this before, but tried not to call attention to it, choosing, instead, to reassure him that everything was fine. Now he felt terrible for frightening Mickey, all just to ease his own conscience. 

“Everything’s alright, Mick…Sorry,” Ian comforted, rubbing Mickey’s back as he leaned up on his elbow behind him.

A pounding on their door immediately put a damper on their morning, the evil specter of another grueling day in court looming large in Mickey’s mind. 

“Get up! The van will be here in 30 minutes! LeDonne needs some extra time to prep you both!” Baldin barked authoritatively, though Mickey thought he seemed a bit less abrasive than he had the day before. Perhaps it was the resolution of the issues surrounding Ian’s trip off-base, though he, himself, had yet to hear the details, in that regard, or maybe his evening between the sheets with Dr. Lange had done the trick. Whatever the cause, Mickey hoped the change would be permanent, especially if he planned to continue staying at the house with them. 

Ian crawled to the far side of the bed on his knees, dropping to his stomach, then stepping out on his good leg, artfully avoiding any contact between his tender bottom and the mattress. He then made his way around the bed, holding on for balance and support, until he was able to retrieve his cane from the other side. Mickey looked on in horror at the mess he had made of Ian’s rear-end, feeling a pang of guilt for allowing Ian to talk him into the whole role-play situation that had brought his violent side out with such a vengeance.

“”I’m getting in the shower first,” Ian muttered, reaching for his robe and heading for the door, “Need it cold this morning.”

“Jesus Christ, Ian! Why’d ya let me ta do that to ya?!” Mickey asked guiltily.

“I don’t know, really...But it was fuckin’ hot!” Ian smirked, turning back to catch a glimpse of the gorgeous, loving mate he had so foolishly and consistently abandoned, nearly every time the chips were down. He needed to assure him that this would never happen again. He’d said it enough times, but the situation the night before was an opportunity for him to prove it, to endure all that Mickey gave, no matter how bad it got---to stick it out. 

“Besides...I fucking deserved it,” Ian admitted, “...And I loved it...needed it,” he added sheepishly.

“What the fuck?!” Mickey spouted off, unsure of how he should react.

“Mick...don’t try to understand it...just go with it...okay?” Ian shrugged as he hobbled out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. 

Ian couldn’t explain it himself, other than to chalk it up as a kink he never knew he had. He wasn’t sure what got him more excited, the role-play that made him Mickey’s prison bitch for the evening, or the oddly gratifying pain that Mickey inflicted upon him, once he had assumed the role. It was all just one big blur of euphoric, erotic satisfaction, a feeling of pulse-pounding pleasure that far exceeded anything in his wildest dreams. He hoped Mickey had loved it just as much, but told himself he’d be happy, as long as Mickey liked it enough to do it again.

Mickey watched as his battered lover disappeared behind the closing door, letting himself fall back onto the bed, his mind suddenly flooded with a whole host of disturbing scenarios for the remainder of his Cross. Knowing Ian would be there to witness it all, and then follow him on the stand, next in line to run the gauntlet, didn’t help matters either. He knew Ian had a mind for legal shit, but couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that, just like the night before, Ian had no idea what he was really in store for him.

Mickey hadn’t moved a muscle, still lying sprawled out on the bed, upon Ian’s return. And his man was quite the vision---freshly shaven, both his face and his temples, looking devastatingly handsome and quite ‘military’, which had always stoked Mickey’s inner fire. Today was no exception. He hurried to his feet, rushing at Ian, his arms stretched wide. 

“C’mere…” he muttered, wrapping his arms around his sexy husband and pulling him in for a smoldering kiss, which Ian enthusiastically returned in kind.

“Better get that ass in the shower before I tear it up!” Ian threatened, adjusting himself beneath his robe as he begrudgingly pushed Mickey toward the door.

______________________________

“You’re gonna have to ride with them. And I want you to get me his phone! I wish the fuck you’d have told me about the call sooner. I had his phone for most of the afternoon yesterday. It would have been so easy for me to handle it!” Sergei chided Debra.

“Sergei...I said I’ll take care of it!” Deb retorted angrily, puckering her lips into a sexy pout as she applied the last of her make-up, a thick layer of cherry-red lipstick that gave her lips an absolutely luscious look, appearing even plumper than usual.

“Yeah...famous last words…” Sergei muttered with a shake of his head, turning away and walking briskly in the direction of the front door, hoping to hide his growing erection from her view. They had enjoyed a tumultuous night, filled with fighting and fucking, and fighting some more. Not to mention engaging in some of the same types of games they had overheard taking place in Ian and Mickey’s bedroom. It was sure to be an awkward morning already, and he certainly didn’t need Deb to see the pronounced bulge in his pants, on top of the rest. 

————————————————-

Mickey, Ian and Dr. Lange were escorted in through the bowels of the building, federal Marshalls artfully avoiding all main entrances, public hallways and elevators, in favor of those typically available to employees only, as they guided them safely to a private meeting room. Their low-profile entry also spared them any exposure to members of the press, who had descended on the place like vultures, acting upon a rumor that had somehow been circulated claiming that Burman, who had been hospitalized, following his tangle with Sonny and Yuri, had been released and would be in attendance. 

This, of course, was misinformation, since no two witnesses to the same event can testify in the presence of one another, lest they should be unduly influenced by the other’s testimony. It had created quite a stir, nonetheless, with only a few reporters catching the real news, which was his discharge from the hospital. Those who were there found security to be tight, with no one willing to give a statement. One news crew did, however, manage to get footage of him being loaded into a prison transport vehicle.

“Good Morning, gentlemen,” LeDonne spoke in a chipper voice, upon entering the room where Ian and Mickey had been seated at a conference table, waiting.

“Morning!” Ian returned in with a matching, optimistic tone, as LeDonne took a seat, Mickey nodding in acknowledgement, his eyes downcast, his demeanor one of quiet resignation. 

“We don’t have much time, but I wanted to address with both of you, in light of yesterday’s Cross, the way you should react to questions that are overly invasive, or that seem irrelevant to the facts of the case. While it is my job to object to questions of this nature, you can help by pausing, rather than answering right away. This will ensure me the opportunity to object, and for the judge to rule on my objection,” LeDonne explained.

“Yeah, Mickey told me they were asking some things that, to me, seemed completely out of line yesterday,” Ian responded, 

“Yes, and they will surely continue today, so I wanted you both to be prepared. Ian, you will remain in this room until Mickey’s Cross is finished...And both of you will relinquish your phones for the day,” LeDonne finished nervously, holding his outstretched hand in front of them in anticipation of their acquiescence to his instruction. 

“Wait a minute!” Mickey objected, “I didn’t hafta give anyone my fuckin’ phone yesterday!” 

“There was a possible security breach. The Marshalls will be replacing your phones. And you will get new phone numbers---relax,” LeDonne spouted off with an air of condescension.

Mickey glared up at him, Ian quickly reaching under the table to squeeze Mickey’s thigh. Ian had learned that non-verbal, bodily-contact-based cues could be quite effective in calming Mickey’s temper, especially in situations like this one, where Ian was not the cause of his ire. 

Mickey moved his own hand over Ian’s, lacing their fingers together and taking a deep breath. A knock on the door distracted them all momentarily, the bailiff escorting Dr. Lange into the room, then requesting that Mickey and LeDonne accompany him into the courtroom.

“Phones,” LeDonne demanded curtly, once again opening his hands in front of Ian and Mickey. Ian squeezed Mickey’s thigh, harder this time, prompting him to reach into his pocket and retrieve his phone. Once LeDonne was in possession of both phones, he motioned for Mickey to follow him, Ian releasing his grip on Mickey’s leg and trailing his fingertips fleetingly over Mickey’s package, as Mickey stood to leave. 

Dr. Lange stared LeDonne down contemptuously, standing in his way as he neared the exit. “Why?” she growled, pointing to the phones angrily.

“Ask Baldin…” was LeDonne’s dismissive reply.

Mickey shot Ian a soft look that only he caught, before turning to follow LeDonne and the bailiff out the door. Ian swallowed hard, the thought of Mickey having to endure more of what had clearly upset him so terribly the day before, making Ian sick to his stomach. 

“He’ll be okay, Ian,” Dr. Lange comforted, “He’s a tough cookie. Now let’s talk about you…”

“What about me?” Ian asked, forcing a smile. 

“Well, I...uh…” she stammered, at a complete loss as to how to broach such an uncomfortable subject. 

Ian looked on expectantly, uncertain as to what she could want to discuss, but assuming that it had to do with his upcoming testimony.

There was an uncomfortable silence as Dr. Lange seemed to be grappling with how to start.

“Look…” Ian interjected, in an attempt to rescue her, “I know they will ask about my sexuality...and try to blame me for what Burman did to me, just like they did and will do to Mickey again today. I’m good with it. I know it’s not my fault. Mickey...Mickey’s different though. It’s because of his…” Ian stopped, his eyes filling up with tears as he recalled the time when Mickey’s father caught them together.

“I know that, Ian,” Dr. Lange assured him, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, as she continued to struggle with what to say.

“That’s not what I wanted to talk about…” she continued awkwardly, finally just blurting out, “I need to know that everything I heard last night was...was…” she stalled out, mid-sentence, unable to finish.

“Consensual?” he asked, a grin beginning to spread over his face, his memory of the previous night’s sexually-charged activities effectively driving the unpleasant memory of Terry Milkovich beating the shit out of Mickey from his mind.

“Yes,” she answered, unable to look him in the eye, at this point.

“Most definitely!” he answered, without so much as a second of hesitation, “New...but consensual, for sure,” he finished, Dr. Lange letting out a deep sigh of relief. 

Ian’s mind turned to some of the sounds he had heard coming from the bedroom Dr. Lange and Baldin had occupied, though he had tried to put it out of his mind, up until now. He knew he would be overstepping his bounds if he asked her the same question she’d asked him, but in the current situation they found themselves, all of the lines were blurred, to say the least, and being that she had asked him, he thought maybe there could be an issue between her and Baldin.

“And what about me?” he questioned boldly, now lifting his gaze to meet hers, “What...what I heard last night,” he clarified.

Dr. Lange turned away abruptly, looking to escape the conversation any way she could. She fumbled for her phone, pretending as though she had felt it buzz. “Ian...I have to take this. I’ll be back,” she mumbled, moving briskly toward the door.

“Take what?!” he asked, rising from his chair and lunging at her, faltering as he lost his balance, having leapt up without his cane. He fell into her, as he reached for her, his long, lanky form sprawled out atop her stunned and shaken body. All at once, the door flew open, two Marshalls rushing in and forcibly pulling Ian to his feet.

“Did he hurt you, ma’am?” one of the Marshalls asked, as he helped her up from the floor. It was then that Ian noticed some pretty pronounced marks and bruising on her legs.

“No...he didn’t. It was an accident. He lost his balance,” she explained, nervously straightening her skirt and blouse, “But I do need to step out and take this call, so…” she trailed off, pushing past them, before Ian could get another word in.

_________________________________

Mickey’s cross-examination concluded by 10:30, the judge opting to break for lunch, rather than having LeDonne begin his Direct Examination of Ian, so close to the lunchtime hour. Mickey was ushered into the small room, where Ian had remained with the two Marshalls for the entire morning. Lunch was delivered, just as Mickey had come to sit down next to Ian.

“You okay?” Ian asked, his eyes scanning his husband’s weary face, in search of a clue as to how hard the morning’s session had been on him. 

“I’m fine,” Mickey said softly, looking back at Ian with eyes that spoke volumes as to the pain he had endured, no doubt recounting the abuse he had suffered at Burman’s hands. “I love you, Mick,” Ian murmured, reaching for his tattooed hand and gripping it tight.

“Ya know they’re gonna fuck with you this afternoon...Probably gonna say ya killed that Adolf fucker in cold blood...Probably that ya WANTED ta suck Burman off, and…” Mickey stopped, upon catching sight of the forlorn look on Ian’s face.

“I know, Mick...Can I just wait and hear them say it? I don’t like to hear you say it...okay?” Ian pleaded, burying his face into Mickey’s chest.

“Arright...arright…” Mickey responded, rubbing the back of Ian’s closely-shaved head in a soothing, circular motion with his fingers, as he held him close, “It just pisses me off that you gotta go through this...alone!”

“YOU did…” Ian countered, wrapping his arms around his husband and squeezing him tight, “You went through way too much by yourself, because of me...and I’m sorry. I don’t even deserve for you to be here for me now.”

And in the blink of an eye, as though Ian’s self-effacing comment had made it so, Baldin appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. “Mickey!” Baldin’s voice called out, as he closed the door behind him, “Grab some food to go. I’m taking you back to the house.”

“Where’s Dr. Lange?” Ian asked, giving Baldin the once over, determined to see if there were any marks on HIM. 

“She had a situation...She’ll be back for your Direct,” Baldin answered hurriedly, packing himself a lunch from the small selection of food that had been delivered, then motioning for Mickey to go with him.

“Good luck, man,” Mickey muttered, clearly putting up his tough-guy front to save face in front of Baldin, tossed a wrapped sandwich into a bag, then turned to press a hard, mafia-style kiss into the top of Ian’s head, before exiting with Baldin.

Ian was still snickering at Mickey’s performance as Dr. Lange walked in, only moments after Ian and Baldin had left, both Marshalls following them out.

“So…” Ian began, “You gonna answer my question?” he asked, as though the intervening half-hour since he had initially asked it hadn’t happened.

“Ian,” she mumbled, conveniently preparing herself a plate, in order to keep her face turned away from his, “It’s...it’s complicated.”


	63. Kaboom!

Baldin and Mickey had traversed the seemingly endless restricted-access doorways and stairwells necessary to reach the secure, underground parking area, where Baldin’s personal vehicle was parked.

“Hey! I can’t fuckin’ wait anymore!” Mickey hollered to Baldin, obviously irritated by Baldin’s brisk pace and unwillingness to even acknowledge his multiple attempts at communication, “I’m gonna take a piss! You don’t wanna stop at a restroom, I’ll whip it out and piss right here!”

Baldin continued toward his car, bypassing the last-option restroom, without so much as an acknowledgement of Mickey’s request. Baldin pressed the ‘unlock’ button on his key fob, then reached for the door-handle, signaling to Mickey that he had no intention of addressing his urgent need for a toilet or urinal.

“Fuck you, man!” Mickey snorted, doing an abrupt about-face and jogging toward the Men’s Room. 

Baldin plopped into the driver’s seat, letting out an exasperated sigh as he watched Mickey disappear into the single-occupancy restroom near the garage elevator. He considered following him, but before he could give it a second thought, an ear-splitting explosion rocked the entire framework of the building. Baldin, dazed and paralyzed with fear, in spite of all of his training, both as a federal agent and as a military service member, sat motionless, completely in shock, as dense, dark clouds of smoke filled the underground garage. 

His phone buzzed, jolting him from his semi-comatose haze. It was his burner phone. He took the call, remaining silent until he heard Deb’s voice,

“Sergei! Do you have Mickey?” she asked, her voice trembling as she spoke. Before he could answer, the call failed, all cellular service having been disrupted by what Baldin now recognized as a carefully orchestrated bombing, focused on the east side of the building. 

Baldin, acting without a shred of common sense and completely blinded by his intense feelings for his lover, exited his car hurriedly, racing for the nearest stairwell. No sooner had he maneuvered his way into the stairwell, than Mickey emerged from inside the bathroom, doing his best to locate the car, amid all of the smoke and soot that billowed into the remote section of the garage where he now stood.

Mickey was less than a foot from Baldin’s car before he was able to discern that Baldin was not inside. He tried the driver’s side door, finding it to be unlocked, Baldin having unwittingly left the keys in the ignition. Mickey’s brain was scrambled. Every aspect of his plan for the day---for his life---was out the window in a matter of seconds. Not only was he struggling with how to proceed, in light of what could be a continuing attack of some type on the federal courthouse, but he was also worried sick about Ian—-his whereabouts, his condition, his ability, or lack thereof, to make his way safely out of the building, and then, of course, whether he would even leave, should there be people in need of medical care. 

The ominous creaking sound that followed the initial blast only escalated his fear. The thought of the floor above him crashing down at any moment, absolutely annihilating everyone and everything that was currently in any subsection of the lower level garage, loomed large, dozens of terrifying scenarios playing on his mind. He needed to act quickly to save his own life, before he could consider anything further.

Mickey threw the car into ‘Reverse’, recklessly backing it out of its space, then slamming it into ‘drive’ and proceeding to whip the car around the tight curve that led to the only exit from this isolated, ‘key-pad entry only’ subsection of the garage. 

As he edged his way out, the screaming sirens of approaching emergency-response vehicles assaulted his ears, effectively drowning out the sounds of the crumbling building, which he had just narrowly escaped from beneath. His mind raced, his hands shook, his stomach churned as he pondered what to do next.

“Fuck!!” he screeched from between gritted teeth, as he pounded his fists furiously on the steering wheel in frustration. There was no end in sight to the string of cars that lined the surrounding streets, all at a complete stand-still, all with the same unrealistic goal of getting themselves out of harm’s way. 

Mickey reluctantly merged into the colossal cluster-fuck before him to join in the infernal traffic jam that stood between him and any hope of locating Ian. He could feel his blood pressure rising, his entire body breaking out in a cold sweat as he choked back the stinging tears that now clouded his vision. He blinked them away, wiping intermittently at his face in an effort to maintain his ability to search the growing crowd of evacuees in the desperate hope of laying eyes on the only person in the world who really mattered to him. 

In this moment, Ian’s larger-than-life significance in his own life became crystal clear, every fiber of his being focused on their unlikely reunion, rejecting, wholesale, the idea that kept logically presenting itself---the explosion was on the other side of the building, directly below the courtroom. It was the only reason he was alive. Had Baldin parked in the area designated for the general public, he would surely have been killed instantly.

‘He has to be alive,’ Mickey told himself, defying his own logic. There was just no other way for him to go on. He would somehow find his way to the other side of the building, where Ian would be waiting for him, after having come down the main set of stairs.

The din of the sirens had reached a critical mass, the chaos surrounding him only adding to his sense of hopelessness, hundreds of people attempting in vain to flee the area at the same time as others, seeking to help, descended upon it, effectively creating an impasse. 

Finally, Mickey was able to inch his way up to the corner, where he got a view of firefighters carrying victims from the burning rubble where the east wing of the courthouse once stood. He looked on in horror as he made a slight turn in the direction of the adjacent street, holding his breath as he noticed a number of what looked to be the charred remains of less fortunate victims, littering the sidewalk and roadway. He scanned the horrific scene before him, desperately seeking the tell-tale, barely-there, bleach-blonde hair that would allow him to breathe again.

Before he could get any closer, the police put up a roadblock, redirecting all traffic, vehicle and pedestrian, away from what could only be described as an unstable situation. With connecting wings of the building still standing, teetering on collapse, there was no way to guarantee the safety of anyone who remained in the area.

As the police directed the long string of cars down a nearby alley, Mickey rolled his window down in defiance, the stench of burning flesh quickly permeating the inside of the car. Mickey gagged, holding his hand to his mouth briefly, then taking a deep breath through his mouth, before hollering, “I gotta find my husband! He was in there!”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to…” the cop began, remaining remarkably calm and unfazed, considering the circumstances. 

“Sir! Sir! Who is your husband?” a brazen reporter, appearing to come out of nowhere, cut in, a cameraman chasing after her, projecting a live-feed.

Mickey instinctively turned away, rolling up his window and slouching down in his seat. The last thing he needed was to be caught on camera. He knew the kind of danger that could cause for Ian, and himself. He suddenly realized that his presence was nothing but a liability. He was powerless to do anything for Ian, other than to draw unwanted and prospectively deadly attention to him. And without a phone, he was unable even to call for any type of assistance. 

Once Mickey was far enough down the alley and away from the news crew, he sat up straight in his seat, his attention caught momentarily by a bloody, disheveled passerby---a young boy, maybe eleven or twelve. He briefly contemplated offering him a ride, though those who were on foot were actually making better progress than anyone driving a car. 

“You need help?” he asked, as he rolled his car window down, once again exposing himself to the putrid odor that now pervaded a large chunk of the city. The boy shook his head, turning away from him. “You sure?” he asked, coming to a complete stop, shortly after which came a long, obnoxious honk from the car behind him. 

“Hey, fuck you!” he hollered out the window, sticking his arm out to flip the rude driver off, then glancing in his rear-view mirror to get a look at the asshole. 

Out of the corner of his eye, if only for a split second, he thought he caught a glimpse---so far in the distance that it was little more than a blur---of someone blonde being loaded into the back of an ambulance, a finely-dressed, seemingly uninjured woman climbing in after the EMT.

The driver behind him returned the gesture, laying on his horn again, prompting Mickey to return his attention to the street in front of him, jammed with countless others who had been redirected, quite possibly away from their loved ones, just as he had been. The boy he had spoken to, mere seconds before, seemed to have vanished into thin air. 

A wave of nausea overcame him as he conjured up the most plausible outcomes of this terrible ordeal, realizing that what he thought he had seen being loaded into that ambulance could have been anyone, and that there was even a chance, based on his most recent encounters, that he was ‘seeing things’. 

It wasn’t like Mickey to question his sanity. He had always been rock-solid, in that regard. But today was different. The explosion had really jarred him, and the intervening time in the car, which was quickly approaching the one hour mark, had been incredibly stressful, to the point that he had considered just putting the car in ‘Park’ and running back to what was left of the building, in search of Ian. He knew that didn’t make sense, yet he felt an almost irresistible urge to do it anyway. 

Clearly, he didn’t have his shit together, and this ‘Ian sighting’, in his mind, might just have been further proof of that. And yet, as he opened the car door and hung his head out to vomit, he dared to hope that the blonde hair he’d seen belonged to Ian, and that, somehow, he was safe.


	64. John Doe

“No! No! This patient cannot go to a civilian hospital!” Dr. Lange shouted, as the ambulance finally began to move forward, after nearly an hour of gridlock.

“Ma’am, with all due respect…” the EMT began, Dr. Lange interrupting.

“Just do as I ask…” she barked, exerting her power as a doctor.

“Walter Reed, then?” the EMT asked nervously. 

“Yes, and tell him to step on it!” she responded gesturing toward the cab of the ambulance.  
___________________________

Mickey had been in bumper-to-bumper traffic for the better part of four hours when he finally arrived at the gate of Quantico. He’d experienced the full gamut of emotions during his lengthy, solitary trip—anger, frustration, rage, fear, sorrow—-he’d felt them all. And now he had come to yet another stand-still, the base at a heightened security level, the guards at the gate stopping each and every car for an extensive search, including, in some cases, the use of canines. Baldin’s vehicle was scrutinized closely, since Mickey was the one driving it. He was questioned as to the reasoning behind his possession of a government vehicle, to which he replied that he had borrowed it with permission. 

After what seemed, to Mickey, like an eternity, the guards finally appeared to be satisfied that he posed no threat to the security of the base, and allowed him in. He drove carefully, following all of the traffic laws, heading straight for the only people he thought might possibly be of some help. He remembered that Marcus had worked with Dr. Lange previously, and thought he might be able to get in touch with her somehow. He knew it was a long-shot, and that it was risky, but, under the current circumstances, he didn’t know what else to do. 

He had to find out if the blonde, who had been loaded into that ambulance was his redhead, and the more he replayed the image he’d caught so fleetingly in the rear-view mirror, the more he believed the woman he’d seen was Dr. Lange. Her clothing looked familiar, as it would, naturally, since he had seen her in court that morning. ‘Yes,’ he decided in his mind, ‘Ian was in that ambulance with Dr. Lange.’ 

He breathed a sigh of relief, having nearly convinced himself that Ian was at least in one piece, but as he stepped out of the car, approaching Marcus and Miranda’s front door, his heart began to race again. He really wasn’t comfortable with asking Marcus for a favor, and he didn’t know what the hell to tell him, as to why he needed to speak with her. Certainly, he couldn’t divulge the fact that Ian had been testifying in federal court when the bomb detonated. He took another deep breath, letting it out slowly as he reached for the doorbell, pressing it quickly, before he could lose his nerve.

Almost immediately thereafter, he could hear the wails of their baby, whose sleep he had obviously disturbed. “I’m sorry,” he began, as Miranda swung the door open, her still-whimpering child on her hip.

“Mickey...Oh my God!” she exclaimed, immediately upon recognizing him, the baby beginning to cry harder in response to her outburst.

Mickey just looked at her, his mouth agape and unable to form a single word. Marcus approached, clarifying Miranda’s bizarre reaction, “We saw Ian on the news...and Dr. Lange…” Marcus began, weighing his words, since he was uncertain as to whether Mickey knew that Ian had been in the explosion. 

“Ya did?!” Mickey asked impatiently, hoping Marcus or Miranda would fill in the blanks without his having to share anything he shouldn’t. 

“Yes!” Miranda blurted out, “He was...was...getting into an ambulance...with Dr. Lange!”

“Was...was he...arright?” Mickey questioned nervously, though he understood, in his heart of hearts, that there was no way for either of them to really know that.

“Mickey, come on in. Have a seat,” Marcus spoke calmly, gesturing toward their couch. And before anyone could get another word out, Mickey caught sight of a replay of the news footage, clearly showing that it was, in fact, Ian, who had been loaded into the ambulance, just as he thought he’d seen, but now he was able to get a better look. He could see that Ian’s face and hair were caked with blood, and that Dr. Lange’s clothes also had blood on them. 

Mickey looked on in abject horror, realizing at that moment that Ian’s immediate physical peril was only the tip of the iceberg, in terms of the danger he faced. Now anyone and everyone who was tuned into this newscast, which Mickey was sure had received national airplay, was aware that Ian was in Washington, and, quite obviously, in the federal building when it blew up. 

All of the color drained from Mickey’s face as the commentator detailed the high-profile RICO case that was being tried in federal court, presuming it to be the reason for the attack that left at least 52 people dead, another 25 confirmed to be alive, but critically wounded. She went on to say that officials predicted the death toll to rise, emergency responders continuing to recover more bodies from the rubble with every passing moment. Mickey stood up suddenly, the urge to vomit so strong and unrelenting that he feared he might let loose, right then and there. 

As he made his way toward the front door, Mickey could feel himself falling, but he couldn’t stop it. The next thing he knew, his eyes were blinking open, Marcus and Miranda staring down at him as he felt a warm, wet spot on his chest and the chill of the cold floor beneath him. He gagged at the sour odor of concentrated puke, as it wafted up into his nostrils. He lifted his head slightly, if only to look around to figure out where the fuck he was, and what had just happened, a pervasive dizziness, accompanied by profound disorientation sending his head immediately back to the floor with an audible thud.

“Mickey...don’t try to get up,” Marcus instructed in the same calm voice he had used to address Mickey before, “You smacked your head pretty good...Wanna check ya out.”

Mickey, still dazed, and uncertain as to how he had come to be on the floor at Marcus and Miranda’s house, remained still, allowing Marcus to assess his level of consciousness, and to look for any bumps or bleeding on Mickey’s head. He excused himself briefly, returning with an ice pack and a bottle of water, which he sat on the coffee table, before slowly helping a woosy Mickey to his feet, guiding him back over to the couch. 

“So, what were Ian and Dr. Lange doing in the Federal Building today?” Marcus asked matter-of-factly, as he tended to the growing lump on Mickey’s head.

“For the trial,” Mickey mumbled, still quite out of it, after what Marcus had identified as a full-on syncope episode, most likely brought on by the stress of Ian’s injuries. 

“Trial?! What trial?” Miranda squawked, rushing in from the baby’s room and taking a seat next to Mickey.

“Miranda...please…” Marcus said softly, though he did shoot her a glare of disapproval.

“Just relax, Mickey...and drink the water,” Marcus advised, taking a seat next to Mickey and handing him the glass. Mickey obliged him, taking in about a third of the water, his hand shaking erratically as he did.

“Look,” Mickey began, the cobwebs in his head beginning to clear, though he still had a killer headache, “I gotta get in touch with Dr. Lange. You got her number?”

“I don’t...but I’m sure we can call all of the major hospitals in D.C.---find out where they took him,” Marcus answered.

“Oh...okay…” Mickey responded reluctantly. He knew that Marcus asking for Ian at a bunch of hospitals probably wasn’t a good idea, but he also couldn’t come up with an alternative plan. He needed to know how Ian was, and, more importantly, where he could find him, once all the craziness died down. 

“Finish that water. You’re probably dehydrated,” Marcus reasoned, as he waited to be connected with the first of three hospitals that he planned to call, if necessary. “Mind if I use your name? They won’t tell me if he’s there, but they’d tell you.”

Mickey nodded his uneasy assent, sipping the water warily as Marcus made all three calls, none of which solved the mystery of where Ian was. 

“I...I don’t know what to think,” Marcus mumbled, wondering if he should call the morgue, but not wanting to suggest that to Mickey, who was becoming noticeably more distraught by the minute. Then he thought to himself, ‘Maybe they took him to Walter Reed, since he’s active duty,’ although it didn’t make much sense to him that Dr. Lange would allow them to travel twice the distance,with Ian’s very survival at stake.

“Hey...it’s okay. They probably took him to Walter Reed,” Marcus offered sympathetically, though he doubted this was the case. Nonetheless, he hoped it was, as he looked up the number and called.

“Excuse me,” Marcus muttered, rising from the couch and disappearing into his bedroom, without an explanation. 

“So, what were you talking about before? What kind of trial is Ian involved with?” Miranda questioned nosily. 

“I don’t really know much…” Mickey lied, hoping to stifle Miranda’s curiosity by feigning ignorance. 

“Oh...that ‘top secret’ stuff,” Miranda said with a giggle, using air-quotes, “Marcus used to pull that shit...trying to hold secrets...from his wife. But I wouldn’t have any of it! For precisely this reason! If he’s gonna end up…”

“Miranda!” Marcus hollered, emerging from their bedroom quite suddenly, just in time to prevent his wife from putting her foot squarely into her own mouth, as she had proven, over the years of their marriage, to be quite adept at doing.

“So...what’d ya find out?” Mickey asked, happy to have a respite from Miranda’s meddling.

“Well,” Marcus began, tossing a clean shirt in Mickey’s direction, before continuing, “the good news is that they don’t have him at the morgue!” Marcus announced with genuine relief in his voice. 

“And the bad news?” Mickey managed to squeeze past the growing lump in his throat, as he carefully pulled his soiled shirt over his head. 

“Walter Reed doesn’t have any record of him either,” Marcus shared reluctantly, Mickey’s eyes instantly tearing up in response.

Both men understood the reality of the situation. Well over four hours had passed since the explosion, and, other than the video that the majority of the free world had likely seen by now, both Ian and Dr. Lange seemed to have vanished without a trace.

______________________________

Teresa, Sonny and Yuri all stared at Petrov expectantly as he held his phone tightly to his ear.  
“Baldin’s not answering!” Petrov announced in a panic, as his call went straight to voicemail for the third time. 

“Well, does anyone have a number for Mickey...or Ian?” Sonny called out in desperation.

“Nope. Just Baldin,” Petrov lamented, watching as the news replayed the footage from the bombing for the umteenth time, Ian’s bleach- blonde, blood-soaked hair and equally blood-covered face bringing Teresa to her knees, literally. Then suddenly, she sprang up from the floor, rushing through the door to grab her phone.

“What is it?” Petrov asked, following closely behind her, as had gradually become routine for him, after what could only be described as a nearly complete mental breakdown. 

Teresa had taken the news of T’s death so badly, it was as though she had lost the will to live, and had to be cared for like a child. Petrov had been in touch with Baldin often, over the course of her psychiatric crisis, requesting a visit from Dr. Lange, but his pleas for help fell largely on deaf ears, Baldin seeming to be completely preoccupied with Mickey and Ian’s troubles, their prospective impact on his career, and how to handle it all. 

Petrov recalled one conversation with Baldin, during which he’d been told simply to “Handle it!” He had heard Dr. Lange’s voice in the background, but Baldin refused to put her on the phone. Petrov had known Baldin for years, and yet this person he was dealing with bore virtually no resemblance to the loyal young man he loved like a brother, other than his obvious weakness for beautiful women, a curse they shared, even back in the day.

“I have a number for Dr. Lange,” Teresa enunciated slowly, as she scrolled through the contacts in her phone. “Here it is!” she called out with the first smile Petrov had seen on her face, since before she had learned about T’s demise.

Teresa pressed ‘send’, the hint of a hopeful glint in her beautifully sad eyes. Petrov reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly, in support of her efforts. After about twenty seconds, Teresa ended the call, letting the phone fall from her hand, completely dejected, then pulling her other hand from Petrov’s and throwing herself onto her bed, where she proceeded to sob uncontrollably, screaming, “Please don’t take Ian, too!” 

Petrov did his best to comfort her, lying next to her on the bed and rubbing her back softly as she wept, an incoming text on her phone interrupting her unabashed display of misery.

“Teresa!” Petrov whispered into her ear, after retrieving the phone from the floor, “You have a message from Dr. Lange!”

Teresa reopened her phone, anxiously retrieving the message, then sighing in disappointment.

“What does it say?” Petrov demanded impatiently.

It says, “Sorry, I can’t talk right now,” she blubbered, adding, “It’s an automatically generated message.”

“You don’t know that, Teresa…” Petrov argued, if only to convince himself.

“Just please go away!” she demanded, throwing the phone to the ground for the second time in less than five minutes.

________________________________

“Come quickly!” Dr. Lange ordered, upon seeing a small group of nurses approaching the ambulance, “And prepare the OR! We need the best team of surgeons we can pull together! Let’s go! We don’t have much time!”

“What is the patient’s name?” one of the nurse’s asked.

“John Doe,” Dr. Lange answered protectively, gripping Ian’s hand in her own.


	65. Blood Is Thicker Than Water

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘You can’t confirm or deny?’ Is he there or not?!” Fiona screamed into the phone in utter frustration. She had called every hospital in D.C., and with the same result, which was no result. No one would tell her a damn thing. HIPPA laws prevented her from getting any information on Ian, even at Walter Reed.

The only silver lining to all of this was the fact that anyone seeking to find Ian, including those who might want to harm or kill him, would have the same difficulty in locating him, plus the additional stumbling block of not knowing his new last name, something Ian had shared with Fiona in his drunken stupor, during their recent ‘forbidden’ communication. Ian had also blabbed the name of the base where he and Mickey were staying, and even the name of his doctor, but only after being prompted by Fiona, who, due to the nature of his call, wanted to be sure he was taking his meds. 

Fiona pounded her fists on her steering wheel, as she sat in gridlock on the beltway, just outside of D.C. She took a deep breath, considering her remaining options. She could go to Quantico, though she would have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting in, even under normal security protocols. She quickly dismissed that idea, realizing that, even if she did get in, she wouldn’t know where to go or who to talk to, not to mention the additional danger she might put Ian and Mickey in, by divulging information that Ian had shared in confidence.

She also thought about driving to each hospital to look for him, crossing that option off the list as she sat at a complete standstill in traffic for the better part of 20 minutes. She’d never make it to all of the possible hospitals in time. Finally, she decided to call each of the hospitals again, this time to ask for Dr. Lange. She hoped she could find her, and that perhaps, by some miracle, she would see how much she cared for Ian and at least tell her whether he was alive. Ian had spoken only briefly of Dr. Lange, in glowing terms, citing to her compassionate treatment of both Mickey and himself. 

Fiona mulled it over in her mind, finally determining that calling under the pretense of being a patient in distress would be the best way to get a rapid response. She started with the last number she had dialed, which just happened to be Walter Reed Medical Center. “Please! Please!” Fiona began frantically, putting her phenomenal Gallagher bullshitting abilities to good use, “I need Dr. Lange…”

The switchboard operator began questioning her, “May I have your name, please? And what this is regarding?”

“No!! Just get her!! I’m scared!” Fiona screeched, sounding nothing short of terrified.

“Ma’am...ma’am…” the operator interjected nervously amid Fiona’s increasingly loud pleas for ‘her doctor’, “Can you...can you please tell me...where you are?”

“It’s so far down...but I’m gonna...if she won’t talk to me...I’ll just…” Fiona paused, awaiting the operator’s reaction.

“Ma’am...er...Miss...are you somewhere dangerous?!” the operator stammered, feeling Fiona’s desperation over the phone line.

“I’m...I’m on the Francis Scott Key Bridge,” Fiona whispered in response, recalling the bridge’s name from her travels, much to her surprise.

The operator’s initial thought was to simply call 9-1-1 and let police and first responders handle her, but once she considered what had just happened at the Federal Building and realized that everyone, from the D.C. Police Chief all the way down to junior volunteer firemen, had been summoned to the scene of the attack, she revised her plan. She couldn’t stand the idea of ‘passing the buck’. Fiona’s blood would be on her hands, if she didn’t get the help she needed. 

“Miss...Miss...please...I’ll find her...find your doctor. Just please hold on…” she was begging now, motioning for one of the other operators, then holding her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece as she spoke, 

“Please do an ‘All Call’...” she began, her hands shaking as she spoke, “for a Dr. Lange,” she finished.

“But…” her colleague began to protest.

“Just do it...please!!” she returned sternly, a look of absolute terror in her eyes.

____________________________

“Dr. Lange, you have an urgent phone call,” one of the nurses whispered into Deb’s ear, as she stood, scrubbed in, at her own insistence, but only observing the emergency surgery that was being performed on Ian to repair the damage caused to his organs by the blast. 

“Who is it?” she responded, without taking her eyes off Ian’s surgery for even a second. 

“She won’t say…” the nurse continued, “But she’s threatening to jump off the Francis Scott Key Bridge if she doesn’t get to talk to you.”

“Fuck!” Deb muttered under her breath, turning reluctantly to leave the OR.

“Line 1,” the unit clerk informed from her seat at the nurse’s station. 

“Hello…” Dr. Lange spoke softly into the phone, so as not to scare whomever it was on the other end.

“Dr. Lange?” the voice questioned warily.

“Yes, this is Dr. Debra Lange. With whom am I speaking, please?” she responded politely.

“My name is Fiona Gallagher. I understand you are my brother, Ian’s doctor. He speaks very highly of you. Please...is he alive?”

“Miss Gallagher, I’m afraid I…” Dr. Lange began.

“What do you wanna know? I can tell you anything about him! I basically raised him, for fuck’s sake! Please!” Fiona wailed.

“If you are who you say you are,” Dr. Lange began slowly, racking her brain to come up with a question that would ensure that this distraught woman was, in fact, Ian’s sister, “Then tell me his husband’s name...and...and what illness your brother suffers from.”

Dr. Lange took a deep breath and held it. She knew she was way out of bounds, but something told her that Fiona was the real deal, and, if that were to be the case, she didn’t know, in that moment, whether she could actually adhere to the Feds’ guidelines, under these most unusual circumstances.

“Mickey! And Bipolar,” Fiona answered, without hesitation. 

Dr. Lange let out a sigh, one of both relief and resignation. She understood the possible ramifications of her divulging information about Ian, but as she saw it, the worst that could come of it was her own firing, which, at this point, in her mind, could end up happening anyway. She’d already broken so many rules, completely abandoning protocol in the name of saving Ian’s life. She paused for another brief second, contemplating the possibility that someone might be forcing Fiona to make this call.

Sensing Dr. Lange’s reluctance and fearing the worst, Fiona broke the uncomfortable silence, “Mickey...Belle!” she added triumphantly.

“Ms. Gallagher, how can I be sure you’re making this call willingly?” Dr. Lange questioned.

“Listen, I’m sitting in traffic in the middle of D.C. I don’t know where the fuck to go or what to do! I need to know if my brother is okay...I saw him on the news, and…” Fiona’s words dissolved into a series of quiet sobs. 

“He’s in surgery,” Dr. Lange muttered, adding, “Give me a number where you can be reached.”

Fiona gathered herself enough to respond, managing to squeak out the numbers, just before Dr. Lange announced, “I have to go,” slamming the phone receiver down and rushing to the door of the OR as it opened from the inside.

“Well!?” she demanded, standing toe-to-toe with the man whose hands had been inside Ian’s body only moments before.

“There have been some complications. He’s lost quite a bit of blood. We are working to obtain additional units, but the blood-bank supplies are critically low since the attack. Getting it here quickly is also a challenge. To make matters worse, using a type other than his own, in his current condition, could do more harm than good,” the surgeon explained.

“I’ll donate!” Dr. Lange offered graciously. 

“Are you type B-Negative?” he asked doubtfully.

Dr. Lange shook her head in disappointment, then suggested, “Can we do a search of current patients and staff?”

“We’re on it, but the likelihood of finding a donor in the general population is only about 1.5%, so I’d say the odds of finding one here are pretty slim,” he replied.

“Okay...I may have another option…” Dr. Lange thought, out loud.

_________________________________

Through an ingenious progression of phone calls, aimed at locating Dr. Lange, Marcus had determined that both Dr. Lange and Ian were, in fact, at Walter Reed, despite having been previously told otherwise. Of course, he hadn’t spoken directly with Dr. Lange, but he did, at least, have confirmation, not only that she was there, but also that she had come from the bombing, accompanying a critically-injured patient.

Marcus had tried to keep the severity of Ian’s condition to himself, walking into the kitchen in an effort to ensure that Mickey wouldn’t overhear the information he was receiving. He planned to break what was essentially good news to Mickey, once he had finished the call, leaving out the worrisome details.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t clued Miranda in on his plan, so after entering the kitchen to grab a bottle for their son at just the right time, she spun on a dime, heading in Mickey’s direction. “Mickey!” she chirped with excitement, “He’s there! He’s critically injured, which isn’t good, but at least we know where he is!”

Marcus followed after her, doing his best to keep his cool as he thanked the person on the phone, then ended the call. “Miranda!” he chided, startling her as she held the baby, his bottle falling to the floor, the child’s cries quickly filling the awkward quiet that had prevailed, following Miranda’s insensitive, though well-meaning announcement.

Once the noise died down, Marcus addressed Mickey, “Mickey, at least we know where he is. He’s in good hands, and I’m sure they will reach out to you soon.”

“Naw...don’t have my phone...gotta go there,” Mickey explained fairly calmly, considering who he was and what he was feeling.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. It will be worse there than it was getting in here. I doubt they’re letting anyone in right now,” Marcus theorized.

Mickey was absolutely beside himself, pacing the full length of Marcus and Miranda’s house and becoming more agitated by the second. “I’ll fuckin’ get in there!” he snarled, heading for the front door.

“Marcus, please...Can’t you just use your ID and take him in with you?” Miranda reasoned naively.

“C’mon, Miranda! They just bombed the goddamn Federal Building!” Marcus shouted in frustration, wishing his wife would shut up and stop giving Mickey false hope of getting to Ian any time soon. 

“She’s right! Let’s go!” Mickey insisted, Marcus casting a look of disgust in Miranda’s direction.

Marcus shook his head, traipsing down the hallway, then trailing Mickey out the front door. “If we’re going, we really need to take my car,” he suggested, hopping into the driver’s seat.

Mickey altered his course, heading for the passenger-side door of Marcus’ car. “Thanks, man,” he mumbled tearfully as he got in, “You’re a good dude.”

The ride was without conversation for about the first fifteen minutes, during which Mickey fidgeted continually, spinning his wedding band on his finger, adjusting his position in the seat, and chewing on his lower lip intermittently.

“So…” Marcus finally piped up, “You gonna tell me what the hell’s going on?”

Mickey froze, feeling as though every drop of blood in his body had suddenly rushed to his face. “Huh?” he responded, as though the question didn’t make sense to him.

“C’mon, Mickey, I know what was going on in federal court today. It was all over the news. Some Aryan sex ring at a prison in Illinois. What I don’t know is what all that has to do with Ian. I mean, you said he was at the trial, right?”

Mickey shrugged his shoulders, turning away from Marcus completely to stare out the window.

“Look,” Marcus persisted, “I gotta know before we get to Walter Reed. Whoever blew up that building today obviously either didn’t want that case, or at least someone’s testimony, to be heard.”

Marcus paused, taking a minute to consider how to put it, then just blurting it out, “Mickey, was Ian a witness in that trial?”


	66. Hurry Up and Wait

“Hello!” Fiona answered breathlessly on the half-ring. She had been staring at her phone in anticipation of this call from the moment Dr. Lange had hung up so abruptly. 

“Where are you now?” Dr. Lange’s voice came in barely more than a whisper.

“I’m sitting at a BP station on ...Forest Glen Road,” she read from the street sign on the corner.

“Great! Stay where you are. I’m sending an ambulance to pick you up. When you see the ambulance, just approach and use my name,” Dr. Lange instructed, ending this call as suddenly as she had the last. 

Fiona let out a huff of relief, absolutely astounded at the ease with which she had scored what she assumed must be a chauffeur-driven way into Walter Reed to see her brother. She did question, however, how readily she was being admitted, fearing for Ian’s safety, given the situation. She lit a cigarette and waited, hoping against all hope that everything was legit, and that Ian was alive and safe.

She ducked down in her seat instinctively as two men pulled up next to her, but not before the one in the passenger’s seat caught sight of her. “Fiona?!” a flustered, familiar voice called out.

Fiona lifted her head just enough to catch sight of Mickey, whose head she saw being pushed down into his own lap by the man in the driver’s seat. Just then, as luck would have it, the ambulance pulled up. Fiona stepped out of the car tentatively, walking slowly toward the ambulance, as Dr. Lange had told her to. 

“Dr. Lange,” she said as she approached the passenger’s side of the cab of the ambulance. 

“And the information?” the EMT asked, getting out to meet her.

“What? Um..I mean...my brother is bipolar…” she mumbled.

“What the fuck!? How does she...What is she…” Mickey’s muffled questions wafted up from his lap, where Mickey’s head remained pressed between his own knees and Marcus’ hand.

“Shhhh…” Marcus warned sternly, clearly concerned with Mickey’s safety, upon learning that both he and Ian were protected witnesses, a fact that Mickey had been forced to share, in order to get Marcus to proceed to Walter Reed. As it turned out, Miranda had not shut up about her theory that Ian was ‘Gay Jesus’ since the day she had met ‘The Belles’. She had even gone so far as to pull up several videos on YouTube to confirm her suspicion, though, since Marcus had yet to meet Ian, he thought, at the time, that this was just another instance of his wife being a little bit crazy. He had become accustomed to a certain amount of nutty behavior from his wife, dismissing it as a small sacrifice to make for such a beautiful woman.  
“Mickey...Mickey Belle,” both Mickey and Marcus heard Fiona say, just prior to the EMT helping her into the back of the ambulance.

“He’s...they’re takin’ her ta see Ian!” Mickey piped up, straining to free himself from Marcus’ ever-tightening grasp, “I’m goin’ with ‘em!”

“Mickey! Stay down!” Marcus spat through gritted teeth, wrestling with him in an unsuccessful attempt to keep him in the car and out of anyone’s line of vision.

“I’m Mickey Belle,” Mickey announced, pushing his way forcefully into the back of the ambulance, alongside Fiona, Marcus tailing him all the way.

“It’s...it’s okay,” Fiona vouched for Mickey, “It’s him.”

“But Dr. Lange....” the EMT began nervously.

“Let’s just get this show on the road!” Mickey hollered, pulling at the doors to shut them, “Is he okay? Ian? I gotta fuckin’ see him!”

At this point, he had all but forgotten that Marcus, whose face he’d just slammed the first of the two doors on, had been the one who had gotten him there, and that he was also privy to both his and Ian’s true identity.

“Hey, I think we need to take that guy with us, too,” he pointed, adding, “He’s a Navy Doc.”

“A corpsman, huh?” the EMT responded, “Me, too. C’mon, I’ll call Dr. Lange.”

“The fuck are you doin’ here?” Mickey asked Fiona with an attitude.

“I saw him on TV. I’m fuckin’ worried...just like you!” Fiona bit back defensively.

“If you were so fuckin’ worried, how come you stopped payin’ the lawyer, huh?!” Mickey shot right back.

“Hey,” Marcus interjected, “Seems like you both care about Ian quite a bit, or you wouldn’t be trying to get to him at such a dangerous time.”

Both Mickey and Fiona nodded, still avoiding eye contact with one another. Meanwhile, the EMT, who had just finished identifying himself over the phone as Jared, ended his call, turning to get the message to the driver that they were to proceed to the hospital---STAT--- running lights and sirens. 

Within seconds, the unlikely and equally unrestrained quartet in the back of the ambulance found themselves thrown backward as the driver accelerated, the blaring siren only adding to the frightful frenzy.

“Fuck!” Mickey hissed, sitting up on the ambulance floor and attempting to brace himself. 

“Wow! I guess we’re in a real hurry!” Marcus exclaimed, shooting Jared an inquisitive look.

“Yeah,” was all he got in return, Jared obviously having been asked to keep the details to himself, “Hoping to get through what has been some crazy traffic!” he finally finished, pulling a fairly decent cover story out of his ass. 

________________________________

Dr. Lange demanded that she scrub back in, taking her first opportunity to get as close to Ian as possible, given the obscene number of life-sustaining machines that surrounded him. “Ian…” she began, standing over his burned and bloodied, but somehow still angelic-looking face, “Fiona and Mickey are on their way. Please hold on...they will be here very soon.”

In her experience with unconscious, and even comatose victims, she’d come to believe that, despite their current inability to communicate, they very often could and did hear things that were said to them. She felt that if Ian knew his family was coming, it would give him greater strength to survive, despite the dire situation he was in, physically. 

As she continued to focus her silent attention on Ian’s bomb-ravished form and the surgeons that fought to save him, Dr. Lange felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned suddenly, half-expecting to be told that Fiona and her life-saving blood had arrived. Instead, a nurse quietly informed her that a federal agent was on hold for her at the nurse’s desk. 

“Sergei!” she whispered to herself jubilantly, her heart literally leaping in her chest. She had done her best to drive her nagging concerns for both Sergei and Mickey from her mind, from the moment of the explosion rocked the very foundation of where she and Ian stood, choosing to focus her efforts on something she might be able to control, if only by the most miniscule of measures. She had latched onto the opportunity to save Ian with such conviction that she had managed to shove him into the nearest stairwell and shut the door before anyone else had the presence of mind to react. 

It was only through another victim’s act of self-preservation in attempting to reopen the door, then calling out for help, that Ian came to suffer such severe injuries. He, being the kind-hearted soul that he was, turned back to help, despite Dr. Lange’s admonitions and ernest attempt to stop him, the blow-back from the explosion hurling him, instantly and with great force, backward, the sheer power of the blast sending him tumbling down the stairs, its heat burning all of his exposed skin and singeing his hair. Of course, it took time for his organs to swell, nearly to the point of bursting, a phenomenon Dr. Lange had become all too aware of, in her prior military experience. She shouldered the lion’s share of his weight, all the way down to the fire exit, screaming for assistance the moment they had gotten far enough away from the building, which had already begun collapsing into itself. 

Now she dared to consider Sergei’s condition, having only moments ago learned that Mickey was alive and unharmed. She figured they had both gotten out in the nick of time, a theory she had allowed herself to believe all along, in the name of preserving her sanity through the ordeal that she and Ian had managed to survive together---at least so far. ‘He must be okay, if he’s calling…’ she told herself, before picking up the call.

“Sergei!” she breathed into the phone, her excitement barely containable. 

“No, I’m sorry. This is Agent Todd,” came the reply from the other end of the phone.

“...and where is...where is Sergei?!” she demanded, her eyes already beginning to fill with tears, her prior experience with the feds forcing her to acknowledge what her heart wouldn’t allow her to believe. 

“Agent Baldin’s whereabouts are unknown, at present,” Agent Todd continued, ignoring Dr. Lange’s obvious emotional response, “And I have been asked to assume responsibility for the witnesses, four of whom remain safe and accounted for.”

“That’s good,” Dr. Lange said softly, her voice shaking as she spoke.

“I received an alert that the medical records of the other two were recently accessed, but nothing has been updated,” Todd went on, pausing for Dr. Lange to fill in the blanks.

“Oh?” she replied, feigning surprise.

“Dr. Lange, I also received a report that you recently brought a ‘John Doe’ in, following the attack...a blast victim matching Gallagher’s description.”

“I...well...yes. I thought it best, under the circumstances, that he be treated here,” she explained nervously.

“Yes, but no one here was informed of your decision! I’ve been calling everywhere, just to locate you!” Todd blasted back angrily, adding, “And do you know Milkovich’s whereabouts?”

“Not presently,” she answered, which was technically true, but dishonest, nonetheless. She had her reasons for being less than truthful, however. She knew that if she disclosed the fact that Mickey’s arrival at Walter Reed was imminent, and that he was in good health, someone would surely come to remove him, for the sake of safety. She also knew, however, that Ian needed Mickey, and that without him, he would likely not survive.

“I really have to go,” she said, after a long, uncomfortable silence that she was sure would have ended with more questions about Mickey, if she didn’t excuse herself quickly.

“Be sure to keep me abreast of any and all developments,” he barked.

“Of course. And you will do the same, regarding Agent Baldin’s status?” she responded weakly.

“Yes, I will,” Todd assured her, and with a cursory, “Take care,” he ended the call.

Her mind was racing, suddenly feeling the need to get an update on the death toll, and to call every hospital in town in search of Baldin, though she knew Todd would know something far before everyone else, if he didn’t already. 

“Arright, where is he?” Mickey hollered, bursting through the double doors and onto the Surgical Unit, despite having been instructed to enter quietly, and to maintain a low profile.

“Mickey!” Dr. Lange said with a smile, allowing herself to be distracted from her own misery long enough to greet Mickey and Fiona. “And you must be Fiona!” she called to her, motioning for the trauma team to approach.

“I checked her records already. She’s a match! We need as much blood as she can safely donate,” Dr. Lange instructed.

“Wait! How did you get my…” Fiona began, Mickey cutting her off.

“Just shut the fuck up and roll up your sleeve. Ian needs blood...Unless you ain’t gonna give it to him!” Mickey snarled contemptuously.

Fiona followed the team into a small room, Dr. Lange taking hold of Mickey’s arm. “C’mon. We’re gonna go see Ian,” she whispered, leading him into the OR suite, then instructing him on proper sterile technique for scrubbing, gowning and gloving. 

“Dr. Lange!” the surgeon called out, stepping up to the scrub basin as she and Mickey stood, washing their hands, “Who is this? Did we get the donor? We may need more than just blood!”

“What d’ya need? I’ll give him anything!” Mickey cried out in desperation, his terrified eyes locked on the surgeon’s.

“I’m sorry. I’m Dr. Criss. Who are you?” the surgeon questioned, a perplexed look overtaking his face. He couldn’t reconcile the idea that this man was obviously a family member, not a doctor, but was, nevertheless, scrubbing his hands, as though his expectation was to enter the OR. Just having him in the suite was a clear violation of surgical protocol.

“Mickey...Mickey Belle,” he answered with an awkward grin, realizing that he clearly didn’t belong there, but still dying to see Ian. 

“And what is your relationship to the patient?” Dr. Criss continued.

“Husband! Now you gonna save him, or what? ‘Cuz if ya don’t, we’re gonna have a problem!” Mickey warned.

“Dr. Lange, would you please step in here for a moment, once you’re done there? I need a word with you.”

Mickey finished washing up, then stood motionless, his hands dripping dry over the large sink basin as he listened in on the conversation between Dr. Criss and Dr. Lange. Some of it was difficult to hear, but he was certain that he heard Dr. Lange identify herself as Ian’s psychiatrist, then sharing his bipolar diagnosis. After that, it got a bit dicey, but he definitely heard, “This may be the last time…” and “Ian needs this, if he’s going to…”

Mickey’s heart banged inside his chest, his pounding pulse vibrating his entire body into a perpetual tremor. He broke into a cold sweat, his mouth and throat painfully dry, his vision blurring as he fought to remain standing. He felt as though he might explode if he didn’t get to see Ian, to lay eyes on the man that meant more to him than life itself, if only for a minute, a second---to breathe his air, to bask in his presence…

“Mickey!” Dr. Lange called to him, startling him from his private thoughts. “This will have to be quick, and you need to prepare yourself for what you are about to see…” Dr. Lange continued with her spiel as the trauma team handed Fiona’s donated blood off to one of the nurses.

“She says she’s willing to donate as needed,” the phlebotomist informed, before turning away. 

“Ready?” Dr. Lange asked, coaxing a nearly catatonic Mickey into motion.

Mickey nodded, inhaling deeply and doing his best to calm himself as they strode into the OR together.

“Ian...he’s here,” Dr. Lange announced, motioning for the scrub nurse to secure the drape that covered Ian’s open abdomen. The surgical team had temporarily stemmed the bleeding and had halted the surgery, pending the availability of more blood.

Nothing could have prepared Mickey for what he now stood over. His beautiful, porcelain-skinned man, paler than he’d ever seen him, bloody, burned and terribly frail, clinging to life by a thread, with the help of a collection of machines, each performing a specific, essential bodily function. Mickey wept openly as he caressed Ian’s cheek softly with a gloved hand, “Ian, I love you...You got this,” he whispered, fighting the urge to kiss Ian, in spite of all the swelling and blood. 

“Mr. Belle…” a nurse addressed him, pointing toward the exit, “We are ready to resume the surgery.”

He knew he shouldn’t do it, but something inside him just let go. “I love you,” Mickey repeated, lowering his face over Ian’s and kissing him tenderly, his upper lip brushing over Ian’s lower, his lower lip touching Ian’s upper, Spiderman-style. “And I’ll be waitin’ for ya to kiss me back when ya wake up,” he added, choking back tears as he turned away, amid the disapproving glares of a few surgical team members. Others smiled as he left, feeling for him in this situation and giving him a ‘pass’, if only in their minds. 

"Please fix him!" Mickey pleaded, teary-eyed and shaking, as Dr. Criss walked past him, freshly-scrubbed and ready to continue Ian's surgery, "Please!"


	67. Clear!

Dr. Lange followed Mickey out of the OR suite, determined to focus her energies on him, now that Ian knew he was there. She was also anxious to find out what Mickey knew about Sergei. She’d ignored her own heart for long enough. She had to know, for her own sanity. Besides, Mickey needed a diversion, something to keep his mind off the reality of Ian’s condition, if only for a few minutes at a time.

“Mickey, come sit,” she urged, taking the lead and sitting in the small waiting area across from the nurse’s station.

Mickey followed, seating himself next to her, then closing his eyes. His mind drifted back to the time he and Ian had spent together the night before. He recalled how brutally he had beaten Ian, and regardless of how much Ian had begged for it---enjoyed it, even---it still killed Mickey to recall the details, among them, the lasting physical pain he knew he had inflicted and was sure Ian was still feeling at the time of the horrific explosion, only to be magnified exponentially as he endured the intense burst of heat that scorched his skin and singed his hair, the force of the blast nearly blowing his insides to smithereens. 

Mickey’s eyes filled up yet again, the tears he’d fought so hard to fend off spilling defiantly down his face. Dr. Lange, sensing his deep sorrow, made a simple, yet profound statement that seemed to comfort Mickey, “Whatever it is, it’s okay. Ian knows you’re here, he knows you love him, and he loves you.”

Mickey breathed a sigh of relief, wiping at his eyes, then fidgeting nervously in his chair. “That’s all he could talk about today, ya know---You. So worried about where you were, whether you were safe...Trust me, that man loves you to the ends of the earth,” she went on, though she might have left well enough alone. Knowing Ian had suffered even more with worry over his safety only made Mickey feel worse, again taking on responsibility for Ian’s pain. Though, if he were honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he, likewise, had thought of nothing and no one other than Ian, from the moment he heard and felt the bomb go off. 

Dr. Lange turned toward Mickey, weighing the words she might use next. She so desperately wanted to ask about Sergei, but, after the reception her last comment had received, she was afraid to say another word.

“Yeah, well, Baldin musta loved you,” came the unexpected, unsolicited comment from Mickey, who seemed to have anticipated Deb’s unspoken question as he recounted the initial moments after the blast, correctly surmising that Baldin had gone back into the building to find her.

“Mickey! Why did you say that?! Do you know where he is?!” Dr. Lange pleaded frantically, “Tell me what happened!” she demanded, grabbing hold of Mickey’s hand and squeezing it, “I need to know!”

Mickey recalled the whole story as he remembered it. “I had ta piss and he just ignored me when I asked...so I finally just went, right before we got to the car. While I was in there, I heard and felt a loud-ass boom that rocked the whole fuckin’ place, and when I came out, thinkin’ I better get to the car quick, he wasn’t in it...but the keys were...figured he musta gone in to look for you and Ian. I was gonna go, too, but then I heard the creakin’ and crumblin’...I knew if I didn’t get the fuck out, I’d be buried. So I…” 

Dr. Lange interrupted, wailing, “Stop! Stop!”

She’d heard enough. More than she could handle, really. In her mind, after her own personal experience, there was no way that anyone rushing back into the building, as all of the others were fighting to get out, could possibly have survived. And the fact that Agent Todd professed to know nothing of Sergei’s whereabouts made the situation just that much more bleak. 

“Sorry...But you asked…” Mickey muttered under his breath, realizing and understanding Dr. Lange’s reasons for stopping him, but still somehow thinking he should have told the story differently.

“So you’re not gonna let me see him, after all that?!” Fiona complained, her voice clearly audible from the nurse’s station, some 30 feet away. 

Neither MIckey nor Dr. Lange could hear the nurse’s response, and yet, both were certain that the answer to her question was ‘no’. Dr. Lange understood the major break with protocol she had forced, just to get Mickey in there, and Mickey, himself, had essentially been thrown out so the surgery could resume, following the receipt of Fiona’s blood. 

It did seem to be a cruel twist of fate, given the fact that Fiona had come so far, then had pretty much been told by Dr. Lange that she would be seeing Ian, and Fiona wasn’t about to just let that go.

“You’re Dr. Lange, right?!” Fiona huffed, towering over her menacingly. 

“Yes, yes, I am. I apologize for not introducing myself when we met earlier,” Deb replied kindly, hoping to diffuse her a bit.

“Yeah...guess you didn’t want me to know you were the one puling me in here for my blood, then not letting me see my brother!” Fiona snarled. 

“Look...Fiona….” Mickey interjected, in a kinder voice than he’d used with her in a long time, “It’s real cool how ya came ta help Ian, but right now he’s fightin’ for his fuckin’ life and no one can go in there.”

“Well said,” Dr. Lange chimed in with a smile, “I don’t think I could have put it better myself! I’m hoping that, after the surgery, if it is successful, we might get to see him in the CCU.”

Before Fiona could rebut anything either of them had said, Dr. Lange excused herself, her phone buzzing incessantly from inside the pocket of the magenta scrubs she now wore. 

“Hello…” she answered in a whisper, recognizing the phone number as one that had been assigned to the protected witnesses. 

“Deb...it’s Teresa...I...I...thanks for picking up...I…” Teresa stammered, breaking down before she could get another word out. There was a muffled shuffling sound as Petrov pried the phone from Teresa’s grip. 

“...Uh...hello…” Petrov grunted awkwardly, as he struggled to keep the phone between his shoulder and ear, while also doing his best to consol Teresa.

“Yes, who is this, please?!” Debra asked politely, her heart in her throat as she considered the possibilities of what could be happening on the other end of the phone. Had Teresa been kidnapped again? Was she being forced to make this call?

“Petrov,” he identified himself, then added, “She’s really a mess over here. Worried sick about Ian, after seeing him on the news. And Baldin’s not answering his…”

“I know,” Debra replied, masking her own upset to the best of her ability with a fake cough, then continuing, “Ian and Mickey are safe. That’s really all I have to share at the moment.”

“Well, Teresa will be glad to know that,” Petrov responded, repeating Dr. Lange’s words as he stroked Teresa’s hair softly with his free hand. 

Teresa’s face brightened as she pulled away from Petrov’s embrace, reaching for the phone. “I can talk now...in private,” she spoke calmly, motioning toward the door and waiting for Petrov to exit.

“Deb, I need to know...is Ian okay? I really gotta know…” Teresa breathed in desperation.

“We’re doing our best. I’ll know more within the next few hours and can update you,” Debra assured her.

“Yeah...I’ve heard that before,” Teresa mumbled sadly, her heart sinking as she recalled her last time spent with T, which had produced the unborn child that she now carried. “I’ve already lost my baby’s father. Please don’t let anything happen to Ian. I want him to be in our life...like an uncle, you know? Ian and I, we have a really special bond...and I can’t bear to think of raising this baby without him.”

Petrov cupped his hand against the wall, catching most of what Teresa had just shared, his face falling in disappointment. He had really hoped that Teresa would want his help with the baby, in T’s absence. The fact that it wasn’t his was of no consequence to him. He loved her and that little peanut. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect them. In his mind, they were his family. He hung on every kind word Teresa said to him, and assigned great significance to any outward show of affection that she bestowed upon him, no matter how minute. 

Of course, he wished nothing bad on Ian. He knew as well as anyone how much both Ian and Mickey had suffered already. All he had wanted was for everyone to survive these trials unscathed, and to reestablish themselves in their new lives, with he and Teresa being the next two witnesses to be married. ‘Nothing but a pipedream,’ he said to himself as he walked away from the wall, headed for the door that connected his room to Sonny and Yuri’s. He figured maybe sharing the news that Ian and Mickey were safe might make him feel at least a little bit better.  
___________________________

“What?! You’re pregnant?” Debra gasped, feeling a pang of guilt over her involvement in the whole T situation. 

“Yes,” she answered, “Are you with Ian and MIckey?”

Deb knew she shouldn’t share anything about Ian and Mickey with anyone at this juncture---that these kinds of decisions were for Sergei and his colleagues to make. She also understood that, with Sergei MIA, none of the witnesses would receive any special consideration or leeway. And with all that Teresa had been through, that just didn’t sit right with Deb.

“Yes,” she answered, tearfully adding, “I will tell them they are going to be uncles...the kind that stick close. Now I have to go. Take good care of yourself and that little lovebug you’re carrying. We’ll talk again soon.”

____________________________________

“Dr. Lange,” the unit clerk addressed her cautiously the moment she ended her call with Teresa.

“Yes?” she responded, attempting to read the look on her face.

“You have another call,” she indicated, pointing over to the nurse’s station.

“Hello…” Debra said hoarsely, fighting to keep her emotions in check.

“Lower Level,” a male voice shared in a faint whisper, after which the call ended suddenly.

Debra snuck away quietly, intending to avoid having to tell Mickey or Fiona that she was leaving.

“Where you goin’, Doc?” Mickey’s panicked voice boomed from across the open space surrounding the nurse’s station and the adjacent elevators.

“Fuck!” Dr. Lange cursed under her breath. 

“I have to check on something. I’ll be back. You just wait here with Fiona,” she instructed.

“Why are you leavin’ us? You givin’ up on Ian? Huh?! You think he ain’t gonna…” Mickey’s voice trailed off as he pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes in utter despair. 

“No, no. It’s not that,” she assured him as she punched in a code, then stepped into a single service elevator, the door sliding closed as she spoke, “Just have a bit of business to handle. I’ll be back.”

The elevator dropped quickly, jerking to a stop as the light of the unmarked button she’d pressed shut off, the doors slowly opening to expose the same dank hallways and catacombs that she’d had the misfortune of visiting on far too many occasions since she had become involved in the top-secret medical treatment and housing of federally protected witnesses. The smell, alone, was disconcerting, but when combined with the horrific sights and sounds that permeated the entire level, it was nearly unbearable. She held her breath and clutched her stomach as she weaved her way through the maze of damaged and deranged inhabitants, some of whom looked as though they hadn’t eaten or bathed in quite a while.

She wasn’t sure where, exactly, to go, so she made it a point to lock eyes with every employee she saw, to no avail. She’d nearly reached her starting point again before finally hearing her name.

“Deb!” the voice called out urgently—-so familiar, so welcome, such music to her ears, that her entire body began to buzz, her blood pulsing through it like an exhilarating electrical current, her head tingling from the inside out, her face brightening with a healthy blush.

“Sergei!” she panted, searching every nook and cranny of her surroundings until she finally laid eyes on him, the man she’d loved through hell and back so many times before, “You’re alive!” 

“Dr. Lange!” a large woman wearing tan scrubs hollered as she barreled toward her, “Dr. Criss called. He needs you upstairs...Says he’s running out of options…”

“Sergei...I’ll be back!” she promised as she sprinted for the engine room, turning her head for a brief second to add, “I love you!” before dashing up a narrow, make-shift, stainless-steel ladder, two rungs at a time. This was a short-cut she’d learned on her own, after watching a custodian do it once. She then took the time to gain his trust, after which he shared his secret entrance with her.

Once she’d gained entry, she practically slid down the hall, Mickey quickly catching sight of her and leaping to his feet. “What is it, Doc?! What the fuck’s goin’ on!?” he wailed, struggling to catch up to her. 

“Sir! Sir! A security guard called after him, “Stop! Or I’ll be forced to…”

“Mickey!! Don’t!” Fiona yelled, “Like you said, we can’t go in there right now.”

Mickey fell to his knees. “Ian!” he bellowed, tears streaming down his face.

“C’mon, Mick,” Fiona urged, helping him to his feet, then wrapping an arm around him as she led him back to the waiting area. 

“Mick, ya can’t do his fighting for him this time. You’ve always fought for him, but he’s a fighter, too. This is his fight. Let him fight!” Fiona comforted, rubbing Mickey’s back sympathetically in an unprecedented show of caring toward Mickey. 

Dr. Lange barged through the double doors of the OR suite with a complete lack of restraint, nearly knocking one of the circulating nurses to the ground. She pushed her to the side unapologetically as she scrubbed, gowned and gloved in record time. She then bursted into Dr. Criss’ OR, stopping dead in her tracks as she took in the sight of Dr. Criss standing over Ian’s lifeless body, brandishing a set of internal paddles. Ian’s abdominal cavity lay open and filled with blood, the heart monitor reading a continuous, flat, horizontal line. 

“Clear!” Dr. Criss shouted, making a final, cursory attempt to resuscitate Ian.


	68. Investigations

“Ian…” Mickey mumbled as he rolled over in his narrow hospital bed, reaching out for his husband in vain. This had been an unconscious ritual for the better part of a month, the staff in ‘the underground’ keeping him largely sedated, after finally removing his restraints. He had been completely off the rails, following Ian’s catastrophic Code Blue, ranting, raving and threatening to expose the feds for the hacks they were. He was deemed to be a significant enough risk to the safety and security of the other witnesses being held in the bowels of Walter Reed to be placed under federal psychiatric supervision, therefore being subject to their stringent protocols.

Dr. Lange visited him daily, the feds having refused to allow him out of medical custody, in spite of her repeated requests, as his doctor. She felt that she could better help him if he were released, but since she no longer held any sway with the feds, she had no choice but to go along with his sedation, for his own protection and welfare. 

Baldin had long since been released, after receiving the necessary medical care, then immediately placed on administrative leave, pending the Bureau’s determination as to his culpability in the breach of security protocols involving Ian and Mickey. It had all stemmed from Fiona’s mysterious arrival at just the right time, leading to a review of her phone records, which, in turn, showed that Ian had been in contact with her, a fact that Baldin should have disclosed to the proper authorities. 

Professing ignorance did him absolutely no good either, since allowing protected witnesses to have regular cell phone communication is only permissible under close supervision by the handler. The fact that Ian’s prior ‘off-base’ escapade had been recorded and reported, courtesy of his ankle bracelet, only drew more negative attention to Baldin’s handling skills. Then there was the fact that Marcus had come to the hospital with Fiona and Mickey, Jared, their kind and helpful EMT, taking the opportunity to introduce him as a Corpsman from Quantico to anyone who would listen. Officials sent to look into the circumstances surrounding Mickey’s arrival at Walter Reed soon discovered the connection, which again pointed to a lack of proper supervision on Baldin’s part. Bureau investigators into the bombing had already surmised that it was a targeted attack, aimed at eliminating witnesses, and with all of these Baldin-related red flags, it wasn’t a stretch to postulate that Ian and Mickey’s whereabouts, and even their schedules for court appearances, were known by individuals other than those who were protecting them---dangerous individuals.

Basically put, Baldin was fucked, no matter which way he tried to wriggle out of his predicament. He should have expected as much. He’d had plenty of experience dealing with the aftermath of Deb’s influence. He knew he should have learned to keep his distance, but she always managed to draw him in, like a moth to a flame. The worst part about it was her uncanny ability to make him feel as though he was doing the right thing, with every successive breach he made at her behest. He just couldn’t help it. Most of the time, he thought she was right to begin with, or so he told himself. His true motivation, however, for voluntarily making all of these mistakes was an inextricable mix of logic and emotion---her logic, his emotion. He understood this, in his mind, but his heart always led him astray, regardless.

Agent Todd had taken over as handler of all protected witnesses in the AB and cartel cases, and he did everything by the book, meaning a lot of changes for all concerned, which only served to further restrict their freedom, as well as to severely limit their access to, and knowledge about one another. With the AB trial on indefinite hold, pending the completion of bombing investigation, and new evidence pointing toward a possible cartel connection, it seemed as though the witness’ lives might hang in limbo forever.

_______________________________

“Dr. Lange, we need to begin the reduction of Mickey Belle’s sedation,” a cocky resident barked at Deb. She was truly taken aback at the way this young man had addressed her, someone clearly his senior in both age and experience.

“Excuse me?!” Deb retorted, her undies clearly in a bunch over being told by some Johnny-come-lately understudy how to manage HER patient.

“Orders from the Bureau,” he clarified matter-of-factly, adding, “I’ve already started the process, actually. Just wanted you to know.”

“Oh…” she replied sarcastically, biting her tongue as she began to see a possible benefit to this situation. If she could coach Mickey on what, and more importantly, what not to say, perhaps she could finally get him out of this hellhole he was being held captive in. It was the least she could do, after all that had happened.

________________________________

“She’s entitled to prenatal care! You can’t just keep her locked up like this!” Petrov fumed, completely exasperated by Agent Todd’s apparent disregard for the health of both Teresa and her unborn child. It had been literally months since Teresa, Petrov, Sonny or Yuri had seen the light of day, other than the tiny slivers that stole their way through the thick, shabby gingham curtains that had been plastered to the windows of their dingy motel rooms. 

“I’ll look into it,” Todd responded curtly, pausing for a moment, then adding, “But I’m not promising anything. You are not to be seen by anyone. It’s for your own safety.”

Petrov ended the call with a disgruntled huff, enveloping Teresa in an embrace, purportedly a sympathetic one, though he got as much mileage out of it as possible, inhaling her scent deeply as his nose grazed the top of her head, his fingertips tingling as he rubbed her back lightly.

“I’ll call Deb,” Teresa suggested optimistically, allowing herself to relax into Petrov’s welcoming arms for the moment. 

“You know we can’t do that,” Petrov warned, savoring every second of their extended bodily contact as he continued to hold her. He hated to bring it up, but he fully understood the ramifications of getting caught communicating with anyone other than Agent Todd, now that they were under his oppressive thumb, the potential wrath of the feds an all too real possibility, now that Baldin was out of the picture.

“I don’t care anymore! What else can they do to us...really?” she asked, tilting her head up to look him in the eye. Damn, if he couldn’t get completely lost those hypnotic eyes of hers! He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, refocusing himself on the reality of their situation.

“You don’t wanna know,” he answered, remembering the last conversation he’d had with Baldin, during which he had shared the horrors of Mickey’s situation, asking that he keep it to himself and begging him not to challenge the authority of the Bureau or any of its associates. He had also alluded to the idea that he, himself, might be in danger, making mention of more than a few former colleagues that seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth, following circumstances like the ones he now found himself in.

“Just please give Agent Todd a few days. He said he’d look into it,” Petrov implored her, hoping to put an end to their discussion, before he ended up sharing too much. He didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily, and was hoping that Todd would actually deliver. Todd was such a straight-arrow, rule-following dolt, Petrov figured that, if he didn’t get Teresa to see a doctor soon, he could put a scare into him by threatening to report his incompetence, the first chance he got. 

More than anything, he hated all of the waiting, and what it was doing to Teresa. She had certainly been through more than enough already, having to bear one catastrophe after another, and Petrov felt for her. How he wished he had never involved her in everything at Stateville. In retrospect, he could easily have lessened the feds’ need for her testimony, if he’d had the forethought to do so. Even making her visits with T more difficult to arrange, rather than practically gift-wrapping them for her, might have spared her most of the misery she had endured, not to mention his own. But at the time, he was trying to repay her for all she’d done for him. How was he supposed to know he would fall for her, or that she would end up in such a mess? 

He shook his head in frustration, to which Teresa reacted, “What?!”

“Nothing,” he mumbled, “Just wish things were different.”

_______________________________________

Dr. Lange had been briefed on Mickey’s overnight shenanigans by a new psych intern, Dr.Haider, whose clearance had just come through. In fact, Mickey was her first overnight assignment. She had contacted Dr. Lange out of a combination of respect and desperation, fearing that she would have no choice but to sedate him again, which would go against the feds’ directive, and hoping that Dr. Lange,with her experience and expertise, might be able to offer another option. The mandated decrease in his sedation had brought about many changes in his behavior, among them, his incessant howling for Ian and a resumption of his threats against ‘the piece of shit feds that got his husband killed’.

This was the last straw. Deb had had it! Enough of minding her P’s and Q’s for Baldin’s benefit. In her heart of hearts, she knew he was finished as a federal agent anyway. There were too many indiscretions being pinned on him. He would never overcome them in the eyes of his superiors, especially with the added stress of the bombing investigation. Best if he didn’t even try, as far as she was concerned. In fact, if it were not for her obligations to a few special patients, she would have already suggested that they make a new life elsewhere. The anguish she’d felt when she thought he was dead had been enough for her to realize how deeply she loved and cared for him, and she had pretty much decided that, if things ended badly for him, she would at least entertain the possibility of relocating, in order to pursue a life with him.

Throwing caution to the wind, she made a pit-stop on her way to Mickey’s room, retrieving her phone from her pocket to make a call to Dr. Haider. “I’ll be up to see you shortly , but I have something to do first. Perhaps I could speak with Mickey in the interim. I know they refuse to put a phone in his room, under the circumstances, so I wonder, might I have your cell phone number?” Deb asked boldly.

Dr. Haider,reluctantly agreed, Deb taking the number, then ending the call and proceeding to the quarantined wing of the lower level. She approached the nurse’s station, concocting an elaborate story about an A.G.-ordered psych eval that needed to be completed, prior to a top-secret meeting being held at 06:00 hours. She then confidently collected and donned the necessary gear, approaching the off-limits wing as though she owned it, and carefully peering through the small window in each closed door until she’d found the right one. She pushed the door open quietly, so as not to startle either of the two patients inside.

_____________________________________

“Hel...Hello…” Dr. Haider answered nervously, honestly beginning to doubt the wisdom of her breaking with protocol on her first day in ‘the underground’. Not just anyone in her position would have been trusted this early on in their career, and the last thing she wanted was to lose her clearance over what would surely be deemed a blatant error in judgment. ‘Dr. Lange is a leader in our field,’ she told herself as she awaited Deb’s instructions.

“Hello...are you with him?” Deb asked.

“Yes,” Dr. Haider answered timidly.

“Okay, is he awake?” Deb questioned, already certain that he was, but asking anyway.

“Yes, of course!” Dr. Haider exclaimed, rolling her eyes, then adding, “This is the quietest he’s been, just since I told him you’d be calling.”

“Okay...Just give me a minute…” Deb whispered into the phone, then turning her attention to the man who lay before her, appearing to be in a deep sleep, or perhaps a coma, judging by his initial lack of response to her presence and voice. This was what she’d been told, but she felt it was time to see for herself.

She quickly scanned all of the life-preserving machines that surrounded him, taking note of a slight spike in his respirations as she touched his hand. She had resolved to speak to him, in hopes that he might at least hear her, even if he couldn’t respond, “Well, hello, handsome,” she began with a song in her voice as she admired the well-healed burns on his once-again pretty face. 

“Dr. Lange?” he mumbled, his eyes blinking open slowly, presumably for the first time in a long while.

“Where...where am I?” he asked, louder this time, and obviously audible to Dr. Haider and Mickey, who were waiting on the other end of the phone call.

“Ian?!” Mickey squealed, his face instantly aglow with hope and love, “Is that really you?!”.

“Mickey…” Ian breathed, his chest heaving as he sobbed, tears spilling down the sides of his face, “Thank God…”


	69. Lying Still

Mickey grabbed for the phone,“Doc! You gotta get me outta here...get me to him, or I’m gonna fuckin’ kill someone!” he threatened, the volume and severity of his voice escalating with each word.

“Shhh….Mickey,” Deb whispered, “You have to stay quiet. There’s a lot happening that I can’t explain right here and now…I’ll be up to see you very soon.”

“Like what?!” he bellowed impatiently, clearly irritated with her putting a block to the reunion he’d dreamt of for over a month.

“Mickey, relax. I’ll be right with you. Ian needs me…” Deb said quietly, before putting her phone on mute in an effort to prevent Mickey from making a scene.

“...need to see Mickey...” Ian murmured, a look of desperation in his eyes like she’d never seen before.

“Ian, I promise you’ll see Mickey soon, but you just…” Deb paused, leaning over Ian’s bed, her mouth mere inches from his ear, then continued, “You can’t imagine all that’s happened. There’s a lot you don’t know. You will, I promise, but right now I need you to appear unconscious when any of your caregivers are around. It doesn’t look like they’re charting your vitals, but you still need to stay as still as possible at all times...just for a little while,” she winked. 

Ian nodded his understanding, then smiled weakly, shutting his eyes cooperatively and feigning sleep, though his heart monitor betrayed him. The sound of Mickey’s voice was so inspiriting, the thought of seeing him so exciting, he could barely lie still, his pulse pounding throughout his entire body with a renewed vigor. Deb pressed her finger to her lips as Ian opened a squinty eye to watch her leave.  
________________________

Deb quickly shut the door behind her, hot-footing it to a nearby employee locker room, where she removed and discarded her protective gear, then pressed her phone to her ear, “Mickey? I’m gonna…” she panted, still out of breath from running and from the fast-paced disrobing she’d just accomplished.

“How the fuck can you do this?!” Mickey interrupted, resolving to take matters into his own hands, if she couldn’t be convinced to deliver him to Ian immediately.

“Mickey, as I’ve said, we need to talk, face-to-face. Now, may I please speak with Dr. Haider?” Deb asked in a calm, soothing voice that she reserved for psych patients who were on the brink.

“Hello…” Dr. Haider spoke quietly, after Mickey begrudgingly pushed the phone in her direction.

“Please do your best to keep him calm. I’ll be up to see him very soon,” Deb instructed kindly, “And no one need ever know that you allowed a patient to use your personal phone,” she added, sending the clear message that what had just happened, never happened.  
___________________________

Deb was two rings into a call to Sergei when she heard the locker room door swing open, followed by two females, engaged in a conversation. 

“Sergei!” Deb breathed into her phone upon hearing his voice, as she ducked into a stall.

“Deb, where are you? Why are you using this phone?” Sergei asked, obviously bewildered.

“I’m not at home,” she explained, “This is the only phone I can bring here…and suddenly, I’m not alone either,” she whispered, so quietly that he strained to hear her.

“Gotcha. But this is dangerous,” he responded, hoping she would let him go until she got someplace safer.

“Listen, I’m gonna be here for awhile today, but I need to see you right after...please!” she practically begged, sounding more panicked than he’d heard her in quite a while.

“Where? You know what’s…” he began to remind her.

“Sergei, I don’t care anymore,” she cut him off, “We need to talk---Today.”

“You know I’m being tailed, everywhere I go,” he sighed in frustration, “And I’m under 24/7 surveillance.”

Deb thought, based on past behaviors, that Sergei might be a tad paranoid, but then again, he’d never been in quite this much trouble before, nor had he ever been this entangled in a major terrorist event, so she didn’t want to completely discount what he was saying. 

“It won’t be a problem,” she returned confidently.

“Deb, They’re out front,” he warned, catching a glimpse, through the small opening between his curtains, of the gray SUV that had been parked in front of his building, ever since he had been placed on leave. He truly wondered if they ate, slept and used the bathroom inside, since he’d never once seen anyone enter or exit the vehicle.

Deb, on the other hand, thought it might just be an ordinary, civilian-owned vehicle that was used infrequently, possibly in need of repair. Thus, it was sitting in one spot for an extended period. She humored him, nonetheless, not wanting to do anything to increase his already off-the-charts anxiety.

“Okay, I’ll see you soon,” she promised, leaving him to wonder what the fuck had gotten into her, though he was certain he’d be finding out by day’s end.

___________________________

“What the fuck, Doc?” Mickey yelled, the moment Deb walked into his room, Dr. Haider taking the hint to leave. “Why you been keepin’ him from me...havin’ me thinkin’ he’s...he’s…” Mickey couldn’t finish his sentence, his emotions getting the best of him.

“Okay, Mickey, first of all, I need you to listen quietly until I finish. We can’t talk long, and there’s a lot for me to say…” Deb began.

“Arright, Doc. Shoot,” Mickey responded, doing his best to keep his attitude in check, his own heart pounding with anticipation, anger---outrage. 

“Mickey, when I left the OR that day to try to keep you from being locked away, Dr. Criss had called it. He was about to announce Ian’s time of death. Once they forcibly removed you, despite my protests, I was informed that the Bureau had quarantined all victims, as well as the remains of those who had been killed, pending a chemical analysis of the bombing site. The story was that they had uncovered some evidence to suggest that it was a ‘dirty bomb” that had detonated.

“...the fuck’s a dirty bomb?” Mickey asked, before Deb had a chance to explain.

“It’s got radioactive material in it, Mickey,” she answered in a somber voice. “And that’s the reason they gave me for not allowing either of us to see Ian’s body, but I always suspected that was bullshit. Otherwise, I should have been put into quarantine, right?” she asked rhetorically, though Mickey was onto his next question, without giving her response much thought.

“What the fuck?! So if you thought he was dead. How’d ya find out he wasn’t?” a confused Mickey questioned, raising his voice again.

“Mickey! Quiet!” Deb warned, lowering her own voice to a faint whisper, “I heard it from someone who trusted me enough to divulge top secret info.”

“So what? Ya didn’t trust me enough to tell me?!” Mickey fumed, doing his best to keep his voice down, in spite of his escalating rage. 

“Well...you were kinda nuts…And then after they pumped you full of drugs...” Deb began, hoping to diffuse him with a humorous, yet accurate response, though in that moment she could find no humor in it. She felt genuinely awful for all that both Mickey and Ian had been through, and she wished she didn’t feel so responsible.

Now Deb didn’t know what to say. She lowered her head in shame, attempting to avoid eye contact, her eyes filling with tears, all of which Mickey mistook for signs of grief.

“Oh…Sorry, Doc...I...” Mickey gasped, at a loss for words after suddenly realizing his insensitivity. Though he’d never gotten the opportunity to tell her himself, he was certain that Baldin must have died in the bombing, and here she was dealing with his shit, while, he assumed, also grieving her own loss.

“Don’t be sorry!” she comforted, adding, “Yours was a natural reaction to losing your husband, and I’m truly sorry I couldn’t share this with you sooner. It’s just...I was told he probably wasn’t ever going to wake up, and that I shouldn’t tell you anything until they were sure, especially since your mental state had been...well...somewhat unstable.”

“I get it, Doc,” Mickey assured her, suddenly feeling quite fortunate, as he thought of Baldin again, that Ian was alive and talking, no matter what the circumstances had been up to that moment, “But, please, can I see him?”

“Mickey, today is the first I’ve seen him...and I had to lie to get in there. He’s been under ‘quarantine’” she explained, using air quotes. “And in a coma. I’d like to keep everyone here thinking he still is, for the time being, so I need you to be patient and quiet,” she spoke with an authoritative air that signaled to Mickey that she meant business.

“It’s just so fuckin’ unreal ta me though, like I gotta see him ta believe he’s really there, ya know?” Mickey tried to explain, getting choked up and teary-eyed in the process.

Deb approached him, wrapping a sympathetic arm around his shoulders. “And...and…” Mickey piped up after a brief silence, his body stiffening as his temper flared, the full impact of this news finally hitting him. “...They think we’re gonna testify again? No way! No fuckin’ way! I ain’t givin’ those assholes another shot at hurtin’ Ian...EVER!” he spat through gritted teeth. 

“I know...I know...there’s a lot to consider,” she responded cryptically, “But you’re going to have to give me some time to figure this out. It’s not going to be easy, and we’ll need a detailed plan, before we can do anything,” Deb explained, again remaining intentionally vague in her explanation, her hands visibly shaking as she realized she had just crossed a line, and that there was no turning back.

The buzzing of Deb’s phone broke the tension in the room, Deb excusing herself rather abruptly, much to Mickey’s disappointment.

“Teresa,” she answered, once she’d rounded the corner, “You really shouldn’t be…”

“Deb,” Teresa interjected, “I don’t care. I don’t feel right. I’m worried that something’s wrong with the baby, but Agent Todd’s dragging his feet...Says we’re to be seen by no one. I gotta see someone---soon! Thought you might be able to help,” Teresa whined, sounding uncharacteristically off-kilter, though Deb acknowledged to herself that all of the tragedy surrounding this case had taken its toll on Teresa.

“Is he there?” Deb asked.

“Nope, not right now,” Teresa answered flatly.

“Okay, sit tight...and don’t call anyone else,” Deb advised, ending the call, then turning back toward Mickey’s room.  
___________________________

“Someone is here to see you,” Dr. Haider announced, after knocking on Mickey’s door, then opening it a crack. 

“Who?” Mickey asked, his face lighting up at the misguided thought that whomever it was might be taking him to see his man.

“An Agent Todd...Says he was sent to ask you some questions,” she explained with a timid smile.

Mickey made a face like he’d just stepped in dogshit. “Ain’t it kinda early for this shit, Doc?!” Mickey complained, Dr. Haider chuckling at the emergence of a still salty, but at least somewhat more cooperative side of Mickey than the one she’d dealt with for the majority of the night.

“Those are not the kinds of calls that I make,” she shrugged, heading for the door, still grinning over the antics of her kantankerous, but cute patient.  
______________________________________

“Hey! Dr. Lange!” Dr. Haider called to her, as Deb traversed the Psych wing, heading for Mickey’s tiny room, “There’s an Agent Todd in talking to Mickey. I thought you’d wanna know.”

“Damn!” Deb cursed under her breath, before proceeding to walk in, unannounced.

“Excuse me!” Agent Todd bellowed, “This is a private interview!”

“I’m Mickey’s doctor! Why wasn’t I made aware of this?” Deb bristled, glaring at Todd with disdain.

“Ms. Lange, I…” Todd began.

“That’s Dr. Lange,” she corrected, Mickey stifling a giggle.

“Dr. Lange...Mr. Belle is our witness, first and foremost, and, in light of recent events, the Bureau has determined that details pertaining to Mr. Belle will be shared with you on a ‘need to know’ basis,” Todd spoke condescendingly.

“And what part of you fucking with his mental health is it that I do not ‘need to know’?” she shot back, before she could stop herself.

“Dr. Lange, if you could please step out until we wrap this up…” Todd all but ordered.

“I will NOT! And I’d like it very much if you’d get your supervisor on the phone!” Deb objected forcefully. “I’m sure he’d love to hear all about the excellent care your witnesses are receiving, especially the ones I haven’t seen since ‘intake’!” she added, hoping to light a fire under him, where Teresa was concerned.

Agent Todd hesitated, at a complete loss as to what he should do. He certainly didn’t want to involve his supervisor. The last thing he needed was to have an investigation opened on his compliance or competence. He could plainly see all that was happening to Baldin, and he wanted no part of that.

“Give me a moment…” he finally responded, more politely than Deb had ever heard him address her, reaching into his pocket for his phone as he exited Mickey’s room.

“That’s right, bitch! Tell your story walkin’!” Mickey hollered with a hearty laugh.

Deb couldn’t help but smirk, herself. She knew she had Todd flustered, and she couldn’t have been more pleased.

“Arright, Doc, so we goin’ ta see Ian, or what?” Mickey blurted out in a loud, boisterous voice that Deb worried might have carried out into the hallway.

“Mickey, Shhhhh!” she chided him, “We’ve been over this. We can’t right now. But we’re gonna get this done!” she promised.

Though she had no earthly idea how.

_______________________________________

“So...you’re alive over there?” came a soft-spoken question from the other bed in Ian’s room, startling him from a pleasant daydream about Mickey, which had brought his cock to attention, prompting him to stroke it lightly, despite knowing that even the most languid of releases might pop his stitches loose.

“Shit!” he murmured, taking a moment to calm himself, before adding, “Guess I could ask you the same question.”

“Yeah, well, everyday they came in here to see you, they pretty much talked like you were gonna be a vegetable. Guess they were full of shit! That’s nothing new,” he chuckled.

“So...do you know what happened to me?” Ian asked, confused as hell and feeling as though he’d woken up in some sort of alternate universe. The last thing he remembered was fleeing the Federal Building with Dr. Lange, after a huge explosion. The more he thought, he vaguely remembered an ambulance ride, during which he had felt fine, and was more concerned with Mickey’s whereabouts and safety.

“All I know is you were in a coma...and they didn’t think you were ever gonna wake up. Guess they thought the same of me, at one point,” the man explained.

“Were you there when it exploded?” Ian asked.

“When what exploded?” the man questioned, puzzled.

“The Federal Building. There was a bomb or something,” Ian clarified, more and more bits and pieces of his experience coming flooding back to him as he spoke.

“No, I wasn’t. How could I have been there? I’ve been here for...well, it seems like forever now,” he recalled, thinking Ian must still be a bit out of it.

“And can I ask you something? I mean, I know I’m supposed to be...but...well...how was Teresa? The last time you saw her?” the man asked, swallowing hard as he recounted some of the best moments of his life, spent with her.

Ian’s heart began to pound as he put it together---the voice, the familiarity, and now, the question about Teresa. “T?!” he yelled in surprise.

“Well, who the hell else did you think I was?!” T responded with a deep belly-laugh that put Ian immediately at ease.

“They told us all you were dead, ya know?” Ian informed, a lump growing in his throat as he thought of all the hell Teresa had been and continued to go through.

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” T answered, already feeling guilty for all of the pain he had surely caused.

“No! It doesn’t fucking make sense! Because you’re alive!” Ian yelled, catching the vibe that T was somehow responsible for this deception.

“Ian, you don’t understand,” T countered, sensing Ian’s anger and seeking to diffuse it.

“You’re absolutely right! I don’t understand!” Ian shouted.

“Ian, can you feel your legs?” T asked, seemingly off-topic and out of the blue.

“Yeah, why?” Ian snarled, wondering why T would ask such a question in the midst of a serious discussion about why the whole world thought he was dead.

“Well, I can’t,” T muttered with a self-loathing resignation that spoke volumes to Ian, “So now maybe you understand...I didn’t want Teresa to be saddled with this for the rest of her life. Now she can move on, like we never were…”

Ian silently pondered how to respond, lying completely still, eyes closed, as he heard someone gain entry to the room.


	70. Forever

Ian awoke to familiar, yet quite unexpected surroundings. Despite the lingering effects of a heavy-duty sedative, he was at least able to ascertain that he was in the back of a dimly-lit ambulance, strapped to a gurney, as had become all too common of late, and not to his liking. He would have been much more at ease if he were the EMT caring for an unwitting patient. As his eyes came into better focus, he could make out the shadowy silhouette of a man, who looked to be wearing a surgical mask. “Am I contagious?” he thought to himself. He had noticed that Dr. Lange had come dressed in protective gear when she had visited at the hospital, and now this man, presumably an EMT, seemed to be guarding himself against exposure to something, but what? He was afraid to ask, the back of the ambulance so dark, his brain still so sluggish. The guy had a high and tight. ‘Definitely military,’ Ian told himself, his muddled mind struggling to put it all together---what was happening right now?

And judging by the position of the guy’s head, he thought that perhaps he might be napping, despite the fact that they were traveling over some bumpy terrain at what felt like an excessive speed.

The rough ride jostled him considerably, and as he became more alert, the powerful sedative gradually leaving his system, he began to consider the different possibilities of his current predicament. After all, anything was possible. He had virtually no recollection of any precipitating events. He remembered going silent, feigning unconsciousness, upon the arrival of a hospital employee, as Dr. Lange had instructed, but nothing else---until this moment. 

For all he knew, he had been abducted. After all, an ambulance, under normal circumstances, would never been this devoid of light. And yet, despite the turbulent transport, there was something inherently comforting about the overall experience, which he found to be odd, considering he didn’t know where he was going, who was with him, or why he was waking from what felt like a drug-induced slumber. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but as he inhaled deeply, even the air seemed pleasant. ‘Maybe I’m still high on whatever they gave me,’ he told himself before closing his eyes and drifting off again.

____________________________

“Teresa! Come on! We have to get you out there!” Petrov muttered, desperation evident in his voice, despite the low volume at which he spoke.

Teresa was dry-heaving at this point, but couldn’t gather the strength needed to stand. “I can’t,” she moaned, clutching her stomach as she curled into a ball on the bathroom floor. 

After waiting as long as he could for Teresa to emerge, Petrov burst into the bathroom, crouching down to lift her into his arms and fleeing down the rickety rear fire escape he’d seen both Sonny and Yuri use, just moments before. 

As he approached the waiting ambulance, its doors thrust open, Yuri taking Teresa from Petrov and gently depositing her onto the waiting gurney. Petrov leapt up into the back, taking note of another man, dressed in an EMT’s coveralls and wearing a surgical mask. He had a familiar stance, and once their eyes met, he knew—Sergei. He figured he had to be involved, but was surprised, nonetheless, to see him, under the circumstances. All of the instructions he’d been given had come from Dr. Lange, through Teresa, who insisted that we follow them all, to a T, despite their being in direct opposition to all Agent Todd had told them. They were given precise times and locations, as well as a list of additional tasks to complete, prior to their evacuation, in order to ensure their safety. 

Petrov had thought Todd was a douche from the start, but never once had he questioned his loyalty to the job, or to the US Government. He was shocked at the insinuation that he was untrustworthy, possibly working against the Bureau. But if Teresa believed it, that was good enough for him. God! How he loved that woman! There was nothing in the world he wouldn’t do for her.

He made his way gingerly over to Teresa, the topsy-turvy ride giving him a run for his money in the balance department. “Shit!” he mumbled, as he struggled to kneel beside her.

“Thank you…” she breathed, reaching for his hand.

___________________

“Ian...want you,” Mickey breathed as he rutted his sweet ass urgently against Ian’s hips. Ian nuzzled the nape of his neck in response, breathing him in. Ian could feel his excitement building, his pulse quickening, his heart pounding with anticipation, Mickey’s slow, rhythmic movements coaxing his long-dormant member awake…

Mickey’s intoxicating scent lingered in Ian’s nostrils as his eyes fluttered open, reality creeping in as he took in his surroundings. Much to his disappointment, he was still in the back of an ambulance, sporting a wickedly painful woody, the shadowy figure that accompanied him now leaning over him. Ian guessed the EMT might be checking his level of consciousness, though it may very well have been the tent created by his raging hard-on that had caught his attention. ‘I’m awake,’ were the words he wanted to say, but somehow, they remained nothing more than an unspoken thought. The man lowered his face a bit more, their eyes connecting, instantaneously transfixed. Tears spontaneously poured from the corners of Ian’s eyes, rolling down over his temples and spilling onto the pillow beneath his head.

“Mick…” Ian managed to move his lips, though there was no air or sound behind the motion, the growing lump in his throat only making matters worse. He knew he’d actually pulled it off this time, as he watched tiny crinkles form at the corners of the shimmering eyes that remained locked on his own, his irresistibly adorable smile most definitely lurking beneath the mask he wore.

Mickey stood and stared for a moment, completely in awe of Ian’s seductive beauty, despite his frail and exceptionally pale---even for him---appearance, the fire behind his glowing green eyes vibrant as ever, miraculously immune to all he’d endured, and utterly bewitching. Mickey’s emotions crashed in on him like a tidal wave, the full brunt of his powerlessness, his inability to protect his husband from all he’d suffered, suddenly thrust upon him, the uncertainty of the future, of anything beyond the moment they were in, weighing heavily on his mind.

Mickey ripped the mask off his face, throwing caution to the wind as he dove in for a wet, wild, ravenous kiss---feasting on Ian’s face like a starving animal, greedily claiming it as though it were the last meal on earth. An electrical current surged through Ian, head to toe, his entire being reacting instinctively, sucking Mickey’s deliciously full, almost crimson lips into his hungry mouth, devouring them, along with the needy whimpers that escaped from between them.

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” Ian panted amid their desperate kisses, Mickey’s intense passion breathing life into Ian, lighting him afire, body and soul, stoking the flames of his desire and bringing him to a rolling boil in seconds flat. 

Ian twisted his wrists, struggling feverishly against the nylon bonds that held him to the gurney, in a futile attempt to satisfy his unquenchable thirst for Mickey, which had been growing exponentially, from the moment he’d heard his voice over Dr. Lange’s phone.

“Wanna touch you…” Ian whined in frustration, the friction of the restraints against his skin wearing an increasingly raw set of rope burns into his wrists, as he continued to fight them.

Mickey smirked devilishly as he eyed up his captive lover, the pleading expression on his fair, freckled face, glistening with the sweat of his efforts to free himself, nearly doing Mickey in, right then and there, the urge to tease him so great, he couldn’t resist. He wondered, briefly, if it was too much---whether Ian was stable enough, medically, to handle it, quickly dismissing the notion, upon recalling his last conversation with Dr. Lange. 

Ian’s complete stillness, while in the coma, had helped to speed his healing. It would take time for him to rebuild the strength he’d lost, but it was important that he gradually begin to use all of the muscles in his body again as soon as possible.

‘Good enough,’ Mickey told himself, brushing his lips over Ian’s as he slipped his hand under the sheet that covered Ian’s now trembling form.

“How ‘bout I touch you first?” Mickey hissed huskily into Ian’s ear, planting tender kisses down the side of his face to his chin, then tracing the sexy contour of Ian’s neck with his tongue, Mickey’s cock pressed unrelentingly against the reinforced crotch of his coveralls in protest of his decision to leave Ian’s hands tied, his body physically aching for Ian’s touch as he nipped at the sensitive skin along Ian’s finely-chiseled jawline.

Ian nodded silently in response, his eyelids falling shut in resignation, his arm movements coming to a gradual halt as he reluctantly acquiesced to his helpless position, though he longed to feel Mickey’s soft, supple skin under his fingertips, to caress his cheek, or even just to hold his hand.

Mickey reached beneath Ian’s hospital gown, trailing his fingers slowly, tenderly, up one leg, then down the other, pausing in between to fleetingly graze his balls. “Fuck…” Ian gasped, as Mickey took his ear lobe into his mouth, pulling it between his teeth, nibbling, suckling, milking it for every last drop of its ambrosial flavor, Mickey’s soft moans of pleasure tickling Ian’s eardrum, sending chills down his spine, both men revelling in the exquisite feeling of skin-to-skin contact.

Mickey took his time, carefully removing Ian’s sheet and hiking his gown up to his waist to expose his throbbing monster of a cock, all the while teasing him with his fingers, allowing each feather-light touch to fully register, both with himself and his impatiently writhing mate, before continuing. The control felt so good—-downright exhilarating—-especially after the powerlessness he’d felt over all that had happened to Ian, most of it on his watch. That guilt had gnawed at him for so long, and this felt like the way to make it right, if only for a while...

“Mickey…” Ian huffed through parted lips as he arched and wiggled as best he could, trying like hell to rub himself more consistently against the barely-there touch of Mickey’s masterful fingers.

“Movin’ pretty good for someone who’s supposed ta be dead!” Mickey snickered, as he began kneading Ian’s inner thighs, one with each hand, applying concentrated pressure with his thumbs in all the right places, intentionally avoiding any genital contact, other than the fanning of his lustful breath over Ian’s painfully rigid tool.

“Aren’t ya?” Mickey demanded, lowering his mouth to within inches of Ian’s now straining cock. Damn, if those sexy-as-fuck lips weren’t driving Ian completely insane with want. He could feel them slipping over the tip of his cock already. He lifted his ass up further, bending his legs and digging his heels into the gurney as he tried, with all he had, to reach them.

“Yesss...but it’s hard,” Ian responded in a weak whisper that screamed of pained desperation.

“Oh, I can see that,” Mickey mused, fighting his own impatience. He wanted to suck Ian’s exquisite cock into oblivion, RIGHT THEN! In fact, in that moment, he was convinced he wanted it even more than Ian did, if that were possible. And yet, he held back, sucking two of his own fingers into his mouth instead, doing his best to pacify himself, and taunting the hell out of Ian in the process.

“Damn, Mick…” Ian breathed reverently, the tantalizing visual of Mickey sliding his plump, pouty lips over his own tattooed fingers fucking with him so bad, if he’d had a free hand, he’d have jerked himself to climax in ten seconds or less. “Sexy as fuck…” hé growled, his cock dripping with pre-cum, his breathing shallow and labored, his fingernails clawing into the gurney, as he fought to hold back, in spite of the insanely hot show Mickey was putting on.

Mickey was determined to make love to Ian, slow and easy, in spite of all the current limitations, and he wasn’t about to be rushed. He didn’t want it to be quick. He wanted to give Ian everything—-for him to feel his love for more than a minute, to do something for him that he’d never forget.

He ran his tongue slowly down Ian’s flawlessly gorgeous nine-inches, from tip to hilt, leaving a generous saliva residue that began to collect just above his sack. Ian moaned loudly, unable to contain his enthusiasm, now that Mickey’s exquisite mouth was finally on him. Mickey made his way haltingly down over Ian’s balls, briefly sucking them in, before pulling away, sitting upright again to get a good look at his man in all his tortured glory. 

“Fuck! I love you,” Mickey whispered breathlessly, his anger over his shortcomings as a protector dissolving into thin air as he savored this moment, watching his beautiful husband, completely under his spell, incapable of any thought other than how badly he wanted him—-needed him—-helplessly anticipating Mickey’s next move.

“Mickey...please!” Ian begged, the slight quiver of his lower lip taking Mickey apart, piece by piece.

“Fuck!” he grunted, stuffing an index and middle finger into his mouth, unable to deny the enchanting creature before him for another second. 

Once both fingers were heavily coated with saliva, Mickey retracted them, replacing them with the leaking tip of his lover’s insanely huge and equally beautiful cock. “Mmmmm…” he mumbled, the deliciously familiar taste of Ian driving him to take more and more of him, as he slid his mouth further down Ian’s shaft, his dripping wet fingers massaging Ian’s tight hole, then cautiously penetrating it, first one, then both.

Ian moaned and bucked like a man possessed. He’d waited so long…”Mick!” he screeched, “It’s so fucking good! I’m gonna cum! Please! Don’t stop!!”

Mickey wanted to make him wait, to watch as Ian demanded, then attempted to negotiate, and then finally begged for his orgasm in vain, only relenting when he, himself, was ready, but he didn’t have the heart. He could feel the urgency with which Ian fucked himself up into his mouth, his balls so tight to his body, so hard, so ready to explode. He knew where Ian was, and he could feel his own uncomfortably stiff dick throbbing, near orgasm himself, as he thrust his own hips downward, grinding it against the gurney under him. 

“Mmmmm,” Mickey hummed as he took Ian deep into his throat, again and again, his fingers delving further into Ian’s unrelentingly tight opening, curling upward to nudge his sweet spot, Mickey taking great pleasure in the ecstatic screams he pulled from the love of his life, the man who was everything to him, raising goosebumps over his entire body

“Oh my GOD, MICK!!” Ian squealed so loud and with such intensity, Mickey worried he might have ripped himself open.

Before he could give it a second thought, Ian let out a long string of satisfied whimpers, his mighty hose spraying the back of Mickey’s throat forcefully, waves of gratification and contentment flowing over Mickey’s body as he swallowed his man’s liquid pleasure.

“Ian...Ian...Ya fuckin’ got me…” he panted, fucking the gurney to the rhythm of Ian’s rapturous cries until he shot his load inside his coveralls. 

“Fuck!” Mickey growled, sucking Ian clean, then proceeding to stand up and unzip his coveralls, allowing them to fall, all at once, to his feet. He glanced around the ambulance, looking for the closest piece of cloth or paper he could use to at least attempt to clean himself up.

“C’mere…” Ian purred insistently, a freshly-satisfied,, half-delirious look lingering on his otherwise flawless face, “I’ll take care of that.”

Mickey grinned, stepping out of his coveralls and approaching the top end of the gurney, where Ian’s head lay. 

“Are you gonna let me loose first?” Ian asked with a lazy smile that made Mickey’s spent cock twitch.

“Maybe…” Mickey teased, though he was already working to free Ian’s wrists.

As soon as he was able, Ian reached for Mickey, grasping him by the hips and bringing him in close, then turning his head to the side. “Closer,” he mewled, his mouth watering in anticipation of tasting his husband for the first time in what felt like forever. 

Mickey lifted a bare, devastatingly sexy knee up onto the gurney, then leaned into Ian’s anxiously waiting face. Ian licked his lips eagerly, Mickey’s captivating scent really testing his patience. After some creative maneuvering, Mickey was finally in a position that enabled Ian to grab him by his perfectly round, robust ass cheeks and literally shove him into his own face. 

“You taste fucking fantastic, Mick,” Ian hummed, as he lapped up every last drop of Mickey’s milky seed, literally wringing him out between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, sucking it down as though it were the nectar of the gods.

“Fuck, Ian!” Mickey yelled hoarsely, taking Ian’s grown-out, blonde-tipped, ginger locks into his fists as he attempted to steady himself, the overstimulation prompting a full-body shiver.

Ian let go, Mickey’s marginally-swollen cock falling from his mouth as he wiped at his soaking wet chin, allowing Mickey a moment to collect himself, before he began his interrogation.

“So what’s with the fucking mask?” Ian finally asked, curious as all hell, now that he got his nut, as to what the fuck was actually going on.

“Disguise...Protection,” Mickey breathed, sliding himself off the gurney, careful to avoid any further contact between it and his hyper-sensitive member.

“Yeah? Well, you wanna tell me just exactly what the fuck’s going on?” Ian demanded, more than a little bit freaked out by Mickey’s response to his first question.

“Look, everything’s fine,” Mickey began tentatively, “I was...well, the mask is just in case anyone stops us.”

“And why would anyone stop us, Mick?” Ian asked with a nervous edge in his voice.

“Hey, this is all Dr. Lange’s thing...so you’re gonna hafta ask her. All she told me was to come up the back steps---it was a ladder, really---and to get in the ambulance, like I was supposed ta be there. Ya know...I acted like you, like an EMT. Some dude came to see me beforehand...gave me a buzz cut, then gave me those to wear,” he finished, pointing to the soiled coveralls that now lay in a heap on the floor, “And the fuckin’ mask.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything to me? I mean, when you got in,” Ian asked, puzzled, and obviously not realizing how ‘out of it’ he’d been.

“Well, first, it was so fuckin’ dark, I didn’t even know it was you!’ Mickey explained, adding, “She didn’t say you’d be in here with me. I’m sure glad as fuck you were though!”

“Yeah, I didn’t know it was you either, at first,’ Ian admitted, doing his best to move his whole body over to make room for Mickey.

“Yeah, I figured I was riding back there just to get outta the hospital with a random patient, who was definitely asleep...and then, who the fuck knows?” Mickey shrugged, climbing over top of Ian, then landing awkwardly on his other side. “But then ya started moanin’...not like you were in pain...but like ya do when...ya know...when we’re gonna fuck...and ya want it real bad,” Mickey laughed. 

Ian grinned, rolling his eyes. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten overly excited in his sleep and taken shit from Mickey about it.

“I really fuckin’ missed that shit, man,” Mickey piped up, once he’d caught his breath, repositioning himself to lie on the dry side of the gurney next to Ian. “But I missed you more,” he breathed into Ian’s ear, nuzzling his fuzzy temple with his nose.

Ian’s eyes brimmed over with tears again, the soothing warmth of Mickey’s body against his own reminding him of all they’d been through, how many times he’d thought he’d never see Mickey again, and how, every time, Mickey defied the odds and found his way back. This time it was Ian that had been through hell and back, but it was all worth it---worth it for this. 

“Ian, it’s gonna be arright,” Mickey assured Ian as he turned to look at his love, “Ain’t lettin’ nothin’ happen to you...to us,” Mickey promised in earnest, pressing his lips to Ian’s face and tenderly kissing away his tears, “I fuckin’ love you, Ian. Forever.” 

Ian reached for Mickey’s hand, interlacing it with his own, their wedding bands touching, cupping Mickey’s handsome face with his other hand as he brought him in for a soft kiss.

“Forever,” he repeated.

———————————————————-

“Hey,” Dr. Lange called from the cab of the ambulance into the back, startling Teresa awake, “We have to make some changes. Petrov, I need you to drive the other ambulance.”


	71. Lights and Sirens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming soon! Sorry for the wait on this one. Still plenty more to be revealed. Thanks for your patience!

“I’m not leaving her!” Petrov protested from over Sergei’s shoulder, Sergei instantly volunteering in his stead, “I’ll do it!”

“Sergei! You can’t! What if…” Deb began, intending to keep her man well-hidden throughout their dangerous mission.

Sergei ripped his mask down over his chin angrily. “Deb! Stop! You knew the risks! We chose this for them...for us! We have to see it through!” Sergei cut her off, shutting her down before she could put her concerns into words.

“Who’s driving them now, anyway?” Sonny interjected from across the ambulance, his voice barely audible over the radio. He wanted to volunteer, himself, but Petrov had previously impressed upon both he and Yuri the importance of remaining unseen, particularly since they were both convicted felons, and now also fugitives. Only Sergei and Deb had their Canadian IDs, courtesy of an old mob contact of Sergei’s. The rest of them wouldn’t get theirs until they reached the rendevous point, which was particularly risky for Sonny and Yuri. All any American law enforcement officer or federal agent would need to do is fingerprint them, and their true identity would be discovered, since they were in the federal government’s criminal fingerprint database, something that would remain the case, by design, until after their testimony. The same was true of Mickey and Ian.

“Marcus has to go back. He has done enough. We knew he couldn’t go all the way. His family and career are in Quantico,” Deb began to explain.

“Who the fuck’s Marcus?!” Sonny continued, grabbing the walkie from Sergei’s hand with an attitude. Sergei felt that the less everyone knew about the involvement of outsiders, the better. It was the best way to keep them out of harm’s way AND out of awkward or dangerous situations in which they might be forced to talk about their involvement, or the fugitives’ whereabouts.

“He’s a friend of mine,” Deb responded, before Sergei could step in, “...and of Mickey’s,” she added, Sergei glaring at Sonny as he continued his inquisition.

“Mickey’s friend?!” Sonny questioned, his interest piqued by Deb’s last share.

“Enough!” Sergei thundered, “I’m driving the other ambulance, and that’s the end of it!”

Sergei pulled the mask back up to cover his nose and mouth, then proceeded to exit the rear of the ambulance, stopping at the driver’s-side window to address Deb privately, “I’ll deal with you later,” he growled menacingly from behind his mask, before heading toward the other ambulance, which had pulled into the side of the road, just before the University of Vermont Medical Center, directly in front of the one he had ridden in. 

Sergei and Marcus had chosen this location for the switch in advance, since Marcus had family nearby. He had shared next to no information with his brother, Matt, whom he had planned to meet at UVM, saying only that he was going to be in the vicinity with his Marine Unit, and had scheduled two days of liberty for a visit. He’d told Miranda the same story, just in case they talked. He didn’t like lying to his family, but Sergei made it clear that Marcus had already jeopardized his clearances and military career by helping to get Mickey into Walter Reed, and that if he was considering a change of heart, he’d better start thinking about a new job, which he’d be pursuing with an ‘Other Than Honorable Discharge’ from the Navy. 

Sergei had purposely avoided sharing any details of his coercive methods with Deb until after Marcus had ‘agreed’, but once she found out, she immediately set out to minimize the damage he’d done, taking on the ‘good cop’ role and winning Marcus over, putting him into more of a voluntary, cooperative frame of mind.

“So, you made arrangements?” Sergei asked Marcus as he stepped out of the driver’s side of the first ambulance, which was directly in front of the other one, both parked off the side of the driveway of the UVMC.

“Yes,” Marcus answered, keeping his eyes locked on the hospital at the bottom of the hill. He was uneasy about the threats Sergei had made, and, if he were honest, still pretty pissed about the whole thing, in general, despite his quiet, obedient demeanor.

Then, as luck would have it, a police squad car pulled up next to them. Marcus glanced over nervously, his palms immediately beginning to sweat.

“Is something wrong?” the concerned police officer inquired, rolling his window down, upon seeing the two standing outside the ambulance.

“No, officer. We’re fine. Thank you,” Sergei replied, fighting the urge to flash his federal ID, like he would have routinely done, prior to all the crazy shit that ensued over the past few months.

The cop gave a puzzled look as he watched both men get into the cab of the first ambulance, having expected one of them to get into the other one instead. Marcus knew they’d never get away with heading down the hill to meet Matt, without raising a red flag that could jeopardize everything, and the look on Sergei’s face only served to formally nix the idea, all together.

“Better to pull out as though we are leaving, rather than go to the hospital, risking exposure and questions from security and medical staff,” Sergei muttered, putting his blinker on to alert Deb to the change of plans.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on?!” came Mickey’s booming voice over the walkie he’d been given for emergency communication with Marcus.

Sergei pulled out slowly, taking notice of the change in the cop’s expression as Mickey’s voice came over. “Think he’s suspicious?” Marcus asked apprehensively. He wished like hell he would have somehow gotten his ass out of the ambulance and down the hill to the hospital sooner.

Sergei seemed, to Marcus, to have ignored Mickey’s question, focusing intently on the rear-view mirror as Deb pulled the second ambulance out behind the squad car that had followed them onto the roadway. 

“Hey!” Mickey yelled, agitated with the lack of response to his initial inquiry.

“Change of plans…” Marcus muttered into the radio.

“What the fuck?!” Mickey bellowed, propping himself on his elbow, the characteristic Milkovich scowl overtaking his face.

“And we may have a tail...so get belted in...and keep quiet!” Sergei warned, his voice wavering, his eyes leaving the rear-view mirror only periodically to glance at the road before him. 

Ian snickered, rubbing Mickey’s bare thigh with his thumb. “Better hold on,” he mumbled with a smirk, teasing Mickey in an attempt to diffuse his growing frustration and unease.

“You still high on that shit they gave you or somethin’?! This isn’t funny!” Mickey growled, lifting himself carefully from the gurney to retrieve his soiled coveralls.

“Mick…” Ian began, reaching for him, but quickly realizing he was already too far away and letting out a dejected huff. 

“Comin’ back…” Mickey almost whispered, “Just wanna be dressed, in case…”

Mickey was interrupted by the piercing scream of a siren, followed by the sudden shift of the ambulance, which knocked him off his feet and sent him flying. He landed crossways on top of Ian. Ian winced, hissing through his teeth in pain.

“Fuck...Sorry...” Mickey breathed, fighting to pull himself up far enough to check out any damage he may have done. He lifted Ian’s gown, exposing the mess of fresh scars that covered his chest and abdomen.

“It’s okay,” Ian responded, pulling at his gown to re-cover himself defensively, preparing for what seemed to be his imminent capture. “I’m fine. Just...I want you to...I mean...I don’t want you to worry about me, if you can get outta this,” he stammered, lightly stroking Mickey’s face with his fingertips as he blinked away the tears that came with the thought of Mickey actually leaving him.

“What the fuck’s that s’posed ta mean?!” Mickey roared angrily, though he knew full well what Ian was saying.

Before Ian could answer, the ambulance swerved again. Mickey’s body slammed violently against the wall, then slid to the floor. He lay dazed for a brief moment, before struggling to lift himself onto his hands and knees. He crawled across the floor with great determination, finally leveraging himself up to lean on Ian’s gurney. 

“Stayin’ here with you, “ Mickey sniffed, nestling his nose into the crick of Ian’s neck.

Ian breathed a selfish sigh of contentment, feeling guilty and relieved at the same time, as he repositioned Mickey’s head, cradling it in his hands as the siren blared on, “I love you, Mick.” 

Mickey nodded, pressing his lips against the soft warmth of Ian’s neck, snuggling impossibly closer. He relished this fleeting moment in bliss in silence. No words seemed to be enough.


End file.
